Wintersmith

"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 all down!" said Tiffany reproachfully. "Three pieces of paper! Look, calm down, will you? Didn't you learn anything about midwifery?"

"Mrs. Earwig said giving birth is a natural action and nature should be allowed to take its course," said Annagramma, and Tiffany was sure she heard a snort from behind the kitchen door. "I know a soothing chant, though."

"Well, I expect that will be a help," said Tiffany weakly. "Mrs. Earwig said the village women know what to do," said Annagramma hopefully. "She says to trust in their peasant wisdom."

"Well, Mrs. Obble was the old woman who called, and she has just got simple peasant ignorance," said Tiffany. "She puts leaf mold on wounds if you don't watch her. Look, just because a woman's got no teeth doesn't mean she's wise. It might just mean she's been stupid for a very long time. Don't let her anywhere near Mrs. Owslick until after the baby. It's not going to be an easy birth as it is."

"Well, I know plenty of spells that will help—"

"No! No magic! Only to take away pain! Surely you know that?"

"Yes, but Mrs. Earwig says—"

"Why don't you go and ask Mrs. Earwig to help you then?" Annagramma stared at Tiffany. That sentence had come out a bit louder than intended. And then Annagramma's face slid into what she probably thought was a friendly expression. It made her look slightly mad. "Hey, I've got a great idea!" she said, as bright as a crystal that was about to shatter. "Why don't you come back to the cottage and work for me?"

"No. I've got other work to do."

"But you're so good at the messy stuff, Tiffany," said Annagramma in a syrupy voice. "It seems to come naturally to you."

"I started at the lambing when I was small, that's why. Small hands can get inside and untangle things." And now Annagramma had that hunted look she got when she was dealing with anything she didn't immediately understand. "Inside the sheep? You mean up its…"

"Yes. Of course."

"Untangle things?"

"Sometimes the lambs try to get born backward," said Tiffany. "Backward," muttered Annagramma weakly. "And it can be worse if there's twins."

"Twins…" Then Annagramma said, as if spotting the flaw: "But look, I've seen lots of pictures of shepherds and sheep and there's never anything like that. I thought it was all just…standing around and watching the sheep eat grass." There were times when you could feel that the world would be a better place if Annagramma got the occasional slap around the ear. The silly unthinking insults, her huge lack of interest in anyone other than herself, the way she treated everyone as if they were slightly deaf and a bit stupid…it could make your blood boil. But you put up with it because every once in a while you saw through it all. Inside there was this worried, frantic little face watching the world like a bunny watching a fox, and screaming at it in the hope that it would go away and not hurt her. And a meeting of witches, who were supposed to be clever, had handed her this steading that would be a hard job for anyone. It didn't make sense. No, it didn't make sense. "It only happens when there's a difficult lambing," said Tiffany, while her mind raced. "And that means it's out in the dark and the cold and the rain. Artists never seem to be around then. It's amazing."

"Why are you looking at me like that?" said Annagramma. "Like I'm not here!" Tiffany blinked. All right, she thought, how am I supposed to deal with this? "Look, I'll come and help you with the laying out," she said, as calmly as she could manage. "And I expect I can help with Mrs. Owslick. Or ask Petulia. She's good. But you'll have to do the watching by yourself."

"Sitting up all night with a dead person?" said Annagramma, and shivered. "You can take a book to read," said Tiffany. "I suppose I could draw a circle of protection around the chair…" Annagramma muttered. "No," said Tiffany. "No magic. Mrs. Earwig must have told you this?"

"But a circle of protection—"

"It draws attention. Something might turn up to see why it's there. Don't worry, it's just to make the old people happy."

"Er…when you say that something might turn up…" Annagramma began. Tiffany sighed. "All right, I'll sit up with you, just this once," she said. Annagramma beamed. "And as for skulls," said Tiffany, "just wait a moment." She went upstairs and got the Boffo catalogue, which she'd hidden in her old suitcase. She came back with it carefully rolled up and handed it over. "Don't look at it now," she said. "Wait until you're alone. You might find it gives you ideas. Okay? I'll come and meet you around seven tonight." When Annagramma had gone, Tiffany sat and counted under her breath. When she'd got to five, Nanny Ogg came and vigorously dusted a few ornaments before saying: "Oh, has your little friend gone?"

"Do you think I'm being silly?" said Tiffany. Nanny stopped pretending to do housework. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, not havin' listened," she said, "but if I had been listenin', I'd think you won't get any thanks, that's what I'd think."

"Granny shouldn't have meddled," said Tiffany. "Shouldn't have, eh?" said Nanny, her face blank. "I'm not stupid, Nanny," said Tiffany. "I've worked it out."

"Worked it out, have you? There's a clever girl," said Nanny Ogg, sitting down in her chair. "And what is it you've worked out then?" This was going to get difficult. Nanny was usually cheerful all the time. When she went solemn, like she was now, it could make you nervous. But Tiffany pressed on. "I couldn't take on a cottage," she said. "Oh, I can do most of the everyday stuff, but you need to be older to run a steading. There's things people won't tell you if you're thirteen, hat or not. But Granny put it about that she was suggesting me, and so everyone saw it as a contest between me and Annagramma, right? And they chose her because she's older and sounds really competent. And now it's all falling apart. It's not her fault she was taught magic instead of witchcraft. Granny just wants her to fail so that everyone will know that Mrs. Earwig is a bad teacher. And I don't think that's good."

"I wouldn't be too quick to decide what it is Esme Weatherwax wants, if I was you," said Nanny Ogg. "I won't say a word, mind you. You go off and help your friend if you want, but you've still got to work for me, okay? That's only fair. How's the feet?"

"They feel fine, Nanny. Thank you for asking." More than a hundred miles away, Mr. Fusel Johnson knew nothing about Tiffany, Nanny Ogg, or indeed anything very much except for clocks and watches, which he made for a living. He also knew how to lime-wash a kitchen, which was an easy and cheap way to get a nice white look even if the stuff was a bit runny. And therefore he had no idea why several handfuls of the white powder fountained up out of the mixing bowl before he could add the water, hung in the air for a moment like a ghost, and vanished up the chimney. In the end he put it down to too many trolls moving into the area. This wasn't very logical, but such beliefs generally aren't. And the Wintersmith thought: Lime enough to make a man! That night Tiffany sat up with Annagramma and old Mr. Tissot, except that he was lying down because he was dead. Tiffany had never liked watching over the dead. It wasn't exactly something you could like. It was always a relief when the sky turned gray and the birds started to sing. Sometimes, in the night, Mr. Tissot made little noises. Except, of course, it wasn't Mr. Tissot, who'd met Death hours ago. It was just the body he'd left behind, and the sounds it made were really no different from the noises made by an old house as it cooled down. It was important to remember these things around two o'clock in the morning. Vitally important, when the candle flickered. Annagramma snored. No one with a nose that small should be able to make a snore that loud. It was like ripping planks. Whatever evil spirits might be around on this night, that sound would probably scare them away. It wasn't the gnh gnh gnh part that was so bad, and Tiffany could live with the bloooooorrrrt! It was the gap between them, after the gnh gnh gnh had wound up but before the long letdown of the bloooooorrrrt! that really got on her nerves. It was never the same length twice. Sometimes there was gnh gnh gnh bloooooorrrrt!, one right after the other, and then there might be such a huge gap after gnh gnh gnh that Tiffany found herself holding her breath while she waited for the bloooooorrrrt! It wouldn't have been so bad if Annagramma had stuck to one length of pause. Sometimes she stopped altogether, and there was blessed silence until a festival of bloorts began, usually with a faint mni mni lip- smacking sound as Annagramma shifted position in her chair. Where are you, Flower Lady? What are you? You should be sleeping! The voice was so faint that Tiffany might not have heard it at all if she hadn't been all tensed up waiting for the next gnh gnh gnh. And here it came— Gnh gnh gnh! Let me show you my world, Flower Lady. Let me show you all the colors of ice! BLOOOOOORRRRT! About three quarters of Tiffany thought: Oh, no! Will he find me if I reply? No. If he could find me, he'd be here. My hand isn't itching. The other quarter thought: A god or godlike being is talking to me and I could really do without the snoring, Annagramma, thank you so much. Gnh gnh gnh! "I said I was sorry," she whispered into the dancing candlelight. "I saw the iceberg. It was very…er… nice of you." I have made many more. BLOOOOOORRRRT! Many more icebergs, thought Tiffany. Great big freezing, floating mountains that look like me, dragging fog banks and snowstorms behind them. I wonder how many ships will run into them. "You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble," she whispered. Now I am growing stronger! I am listening and learning! I am understanding humans! Outside the cottage window a thrush began to sing. Tiffany blew out the candle, and gray light crept into the room. Listening and learning…how could a blizzard understand things? Tiffany, Flower Lady! I am making myself a man! There was a complicated grunting as Annagramma's gnh gnh gnh and bloooooorrrrt! ran into each other and she woke up. "Ah," she said, stretching her arms and yawning. She looked around. "Well, that seemed to go well." Tiffany stared at the wall. What did he mean, making himself a man? Surely he— "You didn't fall asleep, did you, Tiffany?" said Annagramma in what she probably thought was a playful voice. "Not even for one tiny little second?"