Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [66]
“Yes, sir,” said Miss Jenkins. “What kind of romance were you looking for?”
“Oh, one wi’ a cover on, ye ken, and wi’ pages wi’ all wurdies on ’em,” said the figure.
Miss Jenkins, who was used to this sort of thing, disappeared into the gloom at the other end of the wagon.
“Dese scunners are total loonies!” said a new voice. It appeared to come from somewhere on the person of the dark book borrower, but much lower than the head.
“Pardon?” said Mr. Swinsley.
“Ach, nae problemo,” said the figure quickly. “Ah’m sufferin’ from a grumblin’ knee, ’tis an old trouble—”
“Why don’t they be burnin’ all dem books, eh?” the unseen knee grumbled.
“Sorry aboot this, ye know how knees can let a man doon in public, I’m a martyr to dis one,” said the stranger.
“I know how it is. My elbow acts up in wet weather,” said Mr. Swinsley. There was some sort of fight going on in the nether regions of the stranger, who was shaking like a puppet.
“That will be one penny,” Miss Jenkins said. “And I will need your name and address.”
The dark figure shuddered. “Oh, I—we ne’er give out oor name an’ address!” it said quickly. “It is against oor religion, ye ken. Er…I dinna wanta be a knee aboot this, but why is ye all here freezin’ tae death?”
“Our oxen wandered off, and alas, the snow’s too deep to walk through,” said Mr. Swinsley.
“Aye. But youse got a stove an’ all them dry ol’ books,” said the dark figure.
“Yes, we know,” said the librarian, looking puzzled.
There was the kind of wretched pause you get when two people aren’t going to understand each other’s point of view at all. Then:
“Tell ye what, me an’—ma knee—will go an’ fetch yer cows for ye, eh?” said the mysterious figure. “Got tae be worth a penny, eh? Big Yan, you’ll feel the rough side o’ my hand in a minit!”
The figure dropped out of sight. Snow flew up in the moonlight. For a moment it sounded as if a scuffle were going on, and then a sound like “Crivens!” disappearing into the distance.
The librarians were about to shut the door when they heard the terrified bellows of the oxen, getting louder very quickly.
Two curling waves of snow came across the glittering moors. The creatures rode them like surfers, yelling at the moon. The snow settled down a few feet away from the wagon. There was a blue-and-red blur in the air, and the romantic book was whisked away.
But what was really odd, the librarians agreed, was that when the oxen had come speeding toward them, they had appeared to be traveling backward.
It was hard to be embarrassed by Nanny Ogg, because her laugh drove embarrassment away. She wasn’t embarrassed about anything.
Today Tiffany, with extra pairs of socks on to avoid unfortunate floral incidents, went with her “around the houses,” as it was known to witches.
“You did this for Miss Treason?” asked Nanny as they stepped out. There were big fat clouds massing around the mountains; there would be a lot more snow tonight.
“Oh yes. And for Miss Level and Miss Pullunder.”
“Enjoyed it, did you?” said Nanny, wrapping her cloak around her.
“Sometimes. I mean, I know why we do it, but sometimes you get fed up with people being stupid. I quite like doing the medicine stuff.”
“Good with the herbs, are you?”
“No. I’m very good with the herbs.”
“Oh, there’s a bit of swank, eh?” said Nanny.
“If I didn’t know I was good with herbs, I’d be stupid, Mrs. Ogg.”
“That’s right. Good. It’s good to be good at something. Now, our next little favor is—”
—giving an old lady a bath, as much as was possible with a couple of tin basins and some washcloths. And that was witchcraft. Then they looked in on a woman who’d just had a baby, and that was witchcraft, and a man with a very nasty leg injury that Nanny Ogg said was doing very well, and that was witchcraft too, and then in an out-of-the-way group of huddled little cottages, they climbed the cramped wooden stairs to a tiny little bedroom where an old man shot at them with a crossbow.
“You old devil, ain’t you dead yet?” said Nanny. “You’re looking well! I swear, the man with the scythe must’ve forgotten