Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [43]
“Oh, waily waily, it’s the Foldin’ o’ the Arms, the Foooldin’ o’ the Aaaarmss!” cried Daft Wullie, dropping to the ground and trying to cover himself with leaves. Around him Feegles started to wail and cower, and Big Yan began to bang his head on the rear wall of the dairy.
“Now then, ye must all stay calm!” yelled Rob Anybody, turning around and waving his hands desperately at his brothers.
“There’s the Pursin’ o’ the Lips!” a Feegle shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Tiffany’s face. “She’s got the knowin’ o’ the Pursin’ o’ the Lips! ’Tis Doom come upon us a’!”
The Feegles tried to run, but since they were panicking again, they mostly collided with one another.
“I’m waiting for an explanation!” said Tiffany.
The Feegles froze, and every face turned toward Rob Anybody.
“An Explanation?” he said, shifting uneasily. “Oh, aye. An Explanation. Nae problemo. An Explanation. Er…what kind would you like?”
“What kind? I just want the truth!”
“Aye? Oh. The truth? Are you sure?” Rob ventured rather nervously. “I can do much more interestin’ Explanations than that—”
“Out with it!” snapped Tiffany, tapping her foot.
“Ach, crivens, the Tappin’ o’ the Feets has started!” moaned Daft Wullie. “There’s gonna be witherin’ scoldin’ at any moment!”
And that was it. Tiffany burst out laughing. You couldn’t look at a bunch of frightened Nac Mac Feegles and not laugh. They were so bad at it. One sharp word and they were like a basket of scared puppies, only smellier.
Rob Anybody gave her a lopsided grin.
“Weel, all the big hags is doin’ it too,” he said. “The wee fat one’s thieved fifteen ham rolls!” he added admiringly.
“That’d be Nanny Ogg,” said Tiffany. “Yes, she always carries a string bag up her knicker leg.”
“Ach, this is no’ a proper wake,” said Rob Anybody. “There should be singin’ an’ boozin’ an’ the flexin’ o’ the knees, no’ all this standin’ aroond gossipin’.”
“Well, gossiping’s part of witchcraft,” said Tiffany. “They’re checking to see if they’ve gone batty yet. What is the flexin’ o’ the knees?”
“The dancin’, ye ken,” said Rob. “The jigs an’ reels. ’Tis no’ a good wake unless the hands is flingin’ an’ the feets is twinklin’ an’ the knees is flexin’ an’ the kilts is flyin’.”
Tiffany had never seen the Feegles dance, but she had heard them. It sounded like warfare, which was probably how it ended up. The flyin’ o’ the kilts sounded a bit worrying, though, and reminded her of a question she had never quite dared to ask up until now.
“Tell me…is there anything worn under the kilt?”
From the way the Feegles went quiet again, she got the feeling that this was not a question they liked being asked.
Rob Anybody narrowed his eyes. The Feegles held their breath.
“Not necessarily,” he said.
At last the funeral was over, possibly because there was nothing left to eat and drink. Many of the departing witches were carrying small packages. That was another tradition. A lot of things in the cottage were the property of the cottage, and would pass on to the next witch, but everything else got passed on to the soon-to-be-late witch’s friends. Since the old witch would be alive when this happened, it saved squabbling.
That was the thing about witches. They were, according to Granny Weatherwax, “people what looks up.” She didn’t explain. She seldom explained. She didn’t mean people who looked at the sky; everyone did that. She probably meant that they looked up above the everyday chores and wondered, “What’s all this about? How does it work? What should I do? What am I for?” And possibly even: “Is there anything worn under the kilt?” Perhaps that was why odd, in a witch, was normal…
…but they’d squabble like polecats over a silver spoon that wasn’t even silver. As it was, several were waiting impatiently by the sink for Tiffany to wash some big dishes that Miss Treason had promised to them, and which had held the funeral roast potatoes and sausage rolls.
At least there was no problem with leftovers. Nanny Ogg, a witch who’d invented Leftover Sandwiches Soup, was waiting in the scullery