Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [49]
Miss Treason closed her eyes again.
“I’ll certainly remember you, Miss Treason,” said Tiffany. “I will really, because—”
The world had gone gray, and was getting grayer. And Miss Treason had gone very still.
“Miss Treason?” said Tiffany, nudging her. “Miss Treason?”
MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, AGED ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN?
Tiffany heard the voice inside her head. It didn’t seem to have come through her ears. And she’d heard it before, making her quite unusual. Most people hear the voice of Death only once.
Miss Treason stood up, without the creak of even one bone. And she looked just like Miss Treason, solid and smiling. What now lay on the dead leaves was, in this strange light, just a shadow.
But a very tall dark figure was standing beside her. It was Death himself. Tiffany had seen him before, in his own land beyond the Dark Door, but you didn’t need to have met him before to know who he was. The scythe, the long hooded robe, and of course the bundle of hourglasses were all clues.
“Where are your manners, child?” said Miss Treason.
Tiffany looked up and said: “Good morning.”
GOOD MORNING, TIFFANY ACHING, AGED THIRTEEN, said Death in his no-voice. I SEE YOU ARE IN GOOD HEALTH.
“A little curtsy would be in order too,” said Miss Treason.
To Death? thought Tiffany. Granny Aching wouldn’t have liked that. Never bend the knee to tyrants, she would say.
AT LAST, MISS EUMENIDES TREASON, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER. Death took her gently by the arm.
“Hey, wait a minute!” said Tiffany. “Miss Treason is one hundred and thirteen!”
“Er…I adjusted it slightly for professional reasons,” said Miss Treason. “One hundred and eleven sounds so…adolescent.” As if to hide her ghostly embarrassment, she plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out the spirit of the ham sandwich.
“Ah, it worked,” she said. “I know I—where has the mustard gone?”
MUSTARD IS ALWAYS TRICKY, said Death as they began to fade.
“No mustard? What about pickled onions?”
PICKLES OF ALL SORTS DON’T SEEM TO MAKE IT. I’M SORRY. Behind them, the outline of a door appeared.
“No relishes in the next world? That’s dreadful! What about chutneys?” said the vanishing Miss Treason.
THERE’S JAM. JAM WORKS.
“Jam? Jam! With ham?”
And they were gone. The light went back to normal. Sound came back. Time came back.
Once again the thing to do was not to think too deeply, just keep her thoughts nice and level and focused on what she had to do.
Watched by the people still hovering around the clearing, Tiffany went and got some blankets, bundling them up so that when she carried them back to the grave, no one would notice that the two Boffo skulls and the spiderweb-making machine were tucked inside. Then with Miss Treason and the secret of Boffo safely tucked away, she filled in the grave, and at this point a couple of men ran and helped her—right until there came, from under the soil:
Clonk-clank. Clonk.
The men froze. So did Tiffany, but her Third Thoughts cut in with: Don’t worry! Remember, she stopped it! A falling stone or something must have started it going again!
She relaxed and said sweetly: “That was probably just her saying good-bye.”
The rest of the soil got shoveled in really quickly.
And now I’m part of the Boffo, Tiffany thought, as the people hurried back to their villages. But Miss Treason worked very hard for them. She deserves to be a myth, if that’s what she wants. And I’ll bet, I’ll bet that on dark nights they’ll hear her….
But now there was nothing but the wind in the trees.
She stared at the grave.
Someone should say something. Well? She was the witch, after all.
There wasn’t much religion on the Chalk or in the mountains. The Omnians came and had a prayer meeting about once a year, and sometimes a priest from the Nine Day Wonderers or the See of Little Faith or the Church of Small Gods would come by on a donkey. People went to listen, if a priest sounded interesting or went red and shouted, and they sang the songs if they had a good tune. And then they went home again.
“We are