The Wee Free Men - Terry Pratchett [92]
“Hmmph,” said Mistress Weatherwax.
Wave. Sound.
“Frying pan?”
“Yes. It got lost, though.”
“Hmm.”
Wave. Sound. It was as if the woman was extracting her history from the air.
“Filled buckets?”
“And they filled up the log box, too,” said Tiffany.
Wave. Sound.
“I see. Special Sheep Liniment?”
“Yes, my father says it puts—”
Wave. Sound.
“Ah. Land of snow.” Wave. Sound. “A queen.” Wave. Sound. “Fighting.” Wave, sound. “On the sea?” Wave, sound, wave, sound…
Mistress Weatherwax stared at the flashing air, looking at pictures only she could see. Mrs. Ogg sat down beside Tiffany, her little legs going up in the air as she made herself comfortable.
“I’ve tried Jolly Sailor,” she said. “Smells like toenails, don’t it?”
“Yes, it does!” said Tiffany, gratefully.
“To be a kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, you have to marry one of ’em, don’t you?” said Mrs. Ogg innocently.
“Ah, yes, but I found a way around that,” said Tiffany. She told her. Mrs. Ogg laughed. It was a sociable kind of laugh, the sort of laugh that makes you comfortable.
The noise and flashing stopped. Mistress Weatherwax stood staring at nothing for a moment and then said: “You beat the Queen, at the end. But you had help, I think.”
“Yes, I did,” said Tiffany.
“And that was—?”
“I don’t ask you your business,” said Tiffany, before she even realized she was going to say it. Miss Tick gasped. Mrs. Ogg’s eyes twinkled, and she looked from Tiffany to Mistress Weatherwax like someone watching a tennis match.
“Tiffany, Mistress Weatherwax is the most famous witch in all—” Miss Tick began severely, but the witch waved a hand at her again. I really must learn how to do that, Tiffany thought.
Then Mistress Weatherwax took off her pointed hat and bowed to Tiffany.
“Well said,” she said, straightening up and staring directly at Tiffany. “I didn’t have no right to ask you. This is your country—we’re here by your leave. I show you respect as you in turn will respect me.” The air seemed to freeze for a moment and the skies to darken. Then Mistress Weatherwax went on, as if the moment of thunder hadn’t happened: “But if one day you care to tell me more, I should be grateful to hear about it,” she said, in a conversational voice. “And them creatures that look like they’re made of dough, I should like to know more about them, too. Never run across them before. And your grandmother sounds the kind of person I would have liked to meet.” She straightened up. “In the meantime, we’d better see if there’s anything left you can still be taught.”
“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