Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [37]
“What was the important thing?” said Miss Tick.
“I’m asking you as one witch to another, Perspicacia Tick: Has the Wintersmith ever met a girl?”
“Well,” said Miss Tick, “I suppose the classic representation of Summer might be called a—”
“But do they ever meet?” asked Granny Weatherwax.
“In the Dance, I suppose. Just for a moment,” said Miss Tick.
“And at that moment, that very moment, in dances Tiffany Aching,” said Granny Weatherwax. “A witch who won’t wear black. No, it’s blue and green for her, like green grass under a blue sky. She calls to the strength of her hills, all the time. An’ they calls to her! Hills that was once alive, Miss Tick! They feels the rhythm of the Dance, an’ so in her bones does she, if she did but know it. And this shapes her life, even here! She could not help but tap her feet! The land taps its feet to the Dance of the Seasons!”
“But she—” Miss Tick began, because no teacher likes to hear anyone else talk for very long.
“What happened in that moment?” Granny Weatherwax went on, unstoppably. “Summer, Winter, and Tiffany. One spinning moment! And then they part. Who knows what got tangled? Suddenly, the Wintersmith is acting so stupid, he might even be a wee bit…human?”
“What has she got herself into?” said Miss Tick.
“The Dance, Miss Tick. The Dance that never ends. An’ she can’t change the steps, not yet. She has to dance to his tune for a while.”
“She’s going to be in a lot of danger,” Miss Tick said.
“She has the strength of her hills,” said Granny.
“Soft hills, though,” said Miss Tick. “Easily worn down.”
“But the heart of the chalk is flint, remember. It cuts sharper than any knife.”
“Snow can cover the hills,” said Miss Tick.
“Not forever.”
“It did once,” said Miss Tick, fed up with playing games. “For thousands of years, at least. An age of ice. Great beasts wallowed and sneezed across the world.”
“That’s as may be,” said Granny Weatherwax, a glint in her eye. “O’ course, I wasn’t around then. In the meantime, we must watch our girl.”
Miss Tick sipped her tea. Staying with Granny Weatherwax was a bit of a trial. Last night’s pot of chicken scraps had turned out to be not for her but for You. The witches had good thick pease pudding and bacon soup without—and this was important—the bacon. Granny kept a big lump of fat bacon on a string and had taken it out, carefully dried it, and put it away for another day. Despite her hunger, Miss Tick was impressed. Granny could shave the skin off a second.
“I hear that Miss Treason has heard her Call,” she said.
“Yes. Funeral tomorrow,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“That’s a difficult steading* over there,” said Miss Tick. “They’ve had Miss Treason for a long, long time. It’ll be a tricky task for a new witch.”
“She’ll be a difficult…act to follow, indeed,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“Act?” said Miss Tick.
“I meant life, of course,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“Whom will you put in there?” asked Miss Tick, because she liked to be first with the news. She also made a point of saying “whom” whenever she could. She felt it was more literate.
“Miss Tick, that is not up to me,” said Granny sharply. “We have no leaders in witchcraft, you know that.”
“Oh indeed,” said Miss Tick, who also knew that the leader the witches did not have was Granny Weatherwax. “But I know that Mrs. Earwig will be proposing young Annagramma, and Mrs. Earwig has quite a few followers these days. It’s probably those books she writes. She makes witchcraft sound exciting.”
“You know I don’t like witches who try to impose their will on others,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“Quite,” said Miss Tick, trying not to laugh.
“I shall, however, drop a name into the conversation,” said Granny Weatherwax.
With a clang, I expect, thought Miss Tick. “Petulia Gristle has shaped up very well,” she said. “A good all-around witch.”
“Yes, but mostly all around pigs,” said