Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [70]
A cart went by, throwing up another wave of slush.
Innards? said the secret voice of the snowman. Made of special dust, yes! But what dust?
“Iron,” said the possibly older boy promptly. “Enough iron to make a nail.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right, that’s how it goes,” said the possibly older girl. “We used to skip to it. Er…‘Iron enough to make a nail…Water enough to drown a cow—’”
“A dog,” said the possibly older boy. “It’s ‘Water enough to drown a dog, Sulfur enough to stop the fleas.’ It’s ‘Poison enough to kill a cow.’”
What is this? the Wintersmith asked.
“It’s…like…an old song,” said the possibly older boy.
“More like a sort of poem. Everyone knows it,” said the possibly older girl.
“’S called ‘These Are the Things That Make a Man,’” said the child who was the right way up.
Tell me the rest of it, the Wintersmith demanded, and on the freezing pavement they did, as much as they knew.
When they’d finished, the possibly older boy said hopefully, “Is there any chance you can take us flying?”
No, said the Wintersmith. I have things to find! Things that make a man!
One afternoon, when the sky was growing cold, there was a frantic knocking on Nanny’s door. It turned out to be caused by Annagramma, who almost fell into the room. She looked terrible, and her teeth were chattering.
Nanny and Tiffany stood her by the fire, but she started talking before her teeth had warmed up.
“Skkkkulls!” she managed.
Oh dear, thought Tiffany.
“What about them?” she said, as Nanny Ogg hurried in from the kitchen with a hot drink.
“Mmmmmiss Trrreason’s Skkkkulls!”
“Yes? What about them?”
Annagramma took a swig from the mug. “What did you do with them?” she gasped, cocoa dribbling down her chin.
“Buried them.”
“Oh, no! Why?”
“They were skulls. You can’t just leave skulls lying about!”
Annagramma looked around wildly. “Can you lend me a shovel, then?”
“Annagramma! You can’t dig up Miss Treason’s grave!”
“But I need some skulls!” Annagramma insisted. “The people there—well, it’s like the olden days! I whitewashed that place with my own hands! Have you any idea how long it takes to whitewash over black? They complained! They won’t have anything to do with crystal therapy, they just frown and say Miss Treason gave them sticky black medicine that tasted horrible but worked! And they keep on asking me to sort out stupid little problems, and I don’t have a clue what they’re about. And this morning there was this old man who’s dead and I’ve got to lay him out and sit up with him tonight. Well, I mean, that’s so…yuk….”
Tiffany glanced at Nanny Ogg, who was sitting in her chair and puffing gently on her pipe. Her eyes were gleaming. When she saw Tiffany’s expression, she winked and said: “I’ll leave you girls to have a little chat, shall I?”
“Yes, please, Nanny. And please don’t listen at the door.”
“To a private conversation? The very idea!” said Nanny, and went into the kitchen.
“Will she listen?” whispered Annagramma. “I’ll just die if Mistress Weatherwax finds out.”
Tiffany sighed. Did Annagramma know anything? “Of course she’ll listen,” she said. “She’s a witch.”
“But she said she wouldn’t!”
“She’ll listen, but she’ll pretend she hasn’t and she won’t tell anyone,” said Tiffany. “It’s her cottage, after all.”
Annagramma looked desperate. “And on Tuesday I’ve probably got to go and deliver a baby out in some valley somewhere! An old woman came and gabbled at me about it!”
“That’ll be Mrs. Owslick,” said Tiffany. “I did leave some notes, you know. Didn’t you read them?”
“I think perhaps Mrs. Earwig tidied them away,” Annagramma said.
“You should have looked at them! It took me an hour to write them