Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [93]
The summer kills the winter, the Third Thoughts insisted. That’s how it works!
But not like this, Tiffany thought. I know it’s not supposed to be like this! It feels wrong. It’s not the right…story. The king of winter can’t be killed by a flying pumpkin!
The Wintersmith was watching her carefully. Thousands of Tiffany-shaped flakes were falling around him.
“We will finish the Dance now?” he said. “I am human, just like you!” He held out a hand.
“Do you know what human is?” said Tiffany.
“Yes! Easy! Iron enough to make a nail!” said the Wintersmith promptly. He beamed, as if he’d done a trick successfully. “And now, please, we dance….”
He took a step forward. Tiffany backed away.
If you dance now, her Third Thoughts warned, that will be the end of it. You’ll be believing in yourself and trusting in your star, and big twinkly things thousands of miles up in the sky don’t care if they twinkle on everlasting snow.
“I’m…not ready,” Tiffany said, hardly above a whisper.
“But time is passing,” said the Wintersmith. “I am human, I know these things. Are you not a goddess in human form?”
The eyes bored into her.
No, I’m not, she thought. I’ll always be just…Tiffany Aching.
The Wintersmith drew closer, his hand still outstretched.
“Time to dance, Lady. Time to finish the Dance.”
Thoughts leaked out away from Tiffany’s grasp. The eyes of the Wintersmith filled her mind with nothing but whiteness, like a field of pure snow….
“Aaaiiiiieeeee!”
The door of old Miss Treason’s cottage flew open and…something came out, staggering through the snow.
It was a witch. You could not mistake it. She—it was probably a she, but some things are so horrible that worrying about how to address a letter to them is silly—had a hat with a point that curled like a snake. It was on top of dripping strands of mad, greasy hair, which were perched on a nightmare of a face. It was green, like the hands that waved black fingernails that were really terrible claws.
Tiffany stared. The Wintersmith stared. The people stared.
As the horrible screaming, lurching thing drew nearer, the details got clearer, like the brown rotting teeth and the warts. Lots of warts. Even the warts on the warts had warts.
Annagramma had sent off for everything. Part of Tiffany wanted to laugh, even now, but the Wintersmith snatched at her hand—
—and the witch grabbed his shoulder.
“Don’t you take hold of her like that! How dare you! I’m a witch, you know!”
Annagramma’s voice wasn’t easy on the ear at the best of times, but when she was frightened or angry, it had a whine that bored right into the head.
“Let go of her, I say,” screamed Annagramma. The Wintersmith looked stunned. Having to listen to Annagramma in a rage was hard for someone who hadn’t had ears for very long.
“Let her go,” she yelled. Then she threw a fireball.
She missed. Possibly she meant to. A ball of flaming gas whizzing nearby usually makes most people stop what they are doing. But most people don’t melt.
The Wintersmith’s leg dropped off.
Later, on the journey through the blizzard, Tiffany wondered how the Wintersmith worked. He was made of snow, but he could make it walk and talk. That must mean he had to think about it all the time. He had to. Humans didn’t have to think about their bodies all the time, because their bodies knew what to do. But snow doesn’t even know how to stand up straight.
Annagramma was glaring at him as if he’d done something really annoying.
He looked around, as if puzzled, cracks appearing across his chest, and then he was just crumbling snow, collapsing into glittery crystals.
The snow began to pour down now, as if the clouds were being squeezed.
Annagramma pulled the mask to one side and stared first at the heap and then at Tiffany.
“All right,” she said, “what just happened? Was he supposed to do that?”
“I was coming to see you and…that’s the Wintersmith!” was all that Tiffany could manage at that point.
“You mean like…the Wintersmith?” said Annagramma. “Isn’t he just a story? What is he after you for?” she added accusingly.