Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [65]
“So is she,” said Granny Weatherwax, as Greebo erupted from the chair and hurtled around the room before disappearing into the kitchen. There was a crash of saucepans followed by the groioioioing of a saucepan lid spinning into silence on the floor.
The kitten padded back into the room, hopped into the empty chair, and curled up.
“He brought in half a wolf last week,” said Nanny Ogg. “You haven’t been hexperimenting* on that poor kitten, have you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” said Granny. “She just knows her own mind, that’s all.” She turned to Tiffany. “I don’t reckon the Wintersmith will be worrying about you too much for a while,” she said. “The big winter weather will be on us soon. That’ll keep him busy. In the meantime, Mrs. Ogg will teach you…things she knows.”
And Tiffany thought: I wonder how embarrassing this is going to be.
Deep in the snow, in the middle of a windswept moorland, a small band of traveling librarians sat around their cooling stove and wondered what to burn next.
Tiffany had never been able to find out much about the librarians. They were a bit like the wandering priests and teachers who went even into the smallest, loneliest villages to deliver those things—prayers, medicine, facts—that people could do without for weeks at a time but sometimes needed a lot of all at once. The librarians would loan you a book for a penny, although they often would take food or good secondhand clothes. If you gave them a book, you got ten free loans.
Sometimes you’d see two or three of their wagons parked in some clearing and could smell the glues they boiled up to repair the oldest books. Some of the books they loaned were so old that the printing had been worn gray by the pressure of people’s eyeballs reading it.
The librarians were mysterious. It was said they could tell what book you needed just by looking at you, and they could take your voice away with a word.
But here they were searching the shelves for T. H. Mouse-holder’s famous book Survival in the Snow.
Things were getting desperate. The oxen that pulled the wagon had broken their tethers and run off in the blizzard, the stove was nearly out, and worst of all, they were down to their last candles, which meant that soon they would not be able to read books.
“It says here in K. Pierpoint Poundsworth’s Among the Snow Weasels that the members of the ill-fated expedition to Whale Bay survived by making soup of their own toes,” said Deputy Librarian Grizzler.
“That’s interesting,” said Senior Librarian Swinsley, who was rummaging on the shelf below. “Is there a recipe?”
“No, but there may be something in Superflua Raven’s book Cooking in Dire Straits. That’s where we got yesterday’s recipe for Nourishing Boiled Socks Surprise—” There was a thunderous knocking at the door. It was a two-part door that allowed only the top half to be opened, so that a ledge on the bottom half could be a sort of small desk for stamping books. Snow came through the crack as the knocking continued.
“I hope that’s not the wolves again,” said Mr. Grizzler. “I got no sleep at all last night!”
“Do they knock? We could check in The Habits of Wolves by Captain W. E. Lightly,” said Senior Librarian Swinsley, “or perhaps you could just open the door? Quickly! The candles are going out!”
Grizzler opened the top half of the door. There was a tall figure on the steps, hard to see in the fitful, cloud-strained moonlight.
“Ah’m lookin’ for Romance,” it rumbled.
The Deputy Librarian thought for a moment, and then said, “Isn’t it a bit chilly out there?”
“Aren’t ye the people wi’ all dem books?” the figure demanded.
“Yes, indeed…oh, Romance! Yes, certainly!” said Mr. Swinsley, looking relieved. “In that case, I think you’ll want Miss Jenkins. Forward please, Miss Jenkins.”
“It looks like youse is freezin’ in there,” said the figure. “Dem’s icicles hanging from der ceilin’.”
“Yes. However, we have managed to keep them off the books,” said Mr. Swinsley. “Ah, Miss Jenkins. The, er, gentleman is looking for Romance. Your