Wintersmith (Page 14)
"Ach, this is no' a proper wake," said Rob Anybody. "There should be singin' an' boozin' an' the flexin' o' the knees, no' all this standin' aroond gossipin'."
"Well, gossiping's part of witchcraft," said Tiffany. "They're checking to see if they've gone batty yet. What is the flexin' o' the knees?"
"The dancin', ye ken," said Rob. "The jigs an' reels. 'Tis no' a good wake unless the hands is flingin' an' the feets is twinklin' an' the knees is flexin' an' the kilts is flyin'." Tiffany had never seen the Feegles dance, but she had heard them. It sounded like warfare, which was probably how it ended up. The flyin' o' the kilts sounded a bit worrying, though, and reminded her of a question she had never quite dared to ask up until now. "Tell me…is there anything worn under the kilt?" From the way the Feegles went quiet again, she got the feeling that this was not a question they liked being asked. Rob Anybody narrowed his eyes. The Feegles held their breath. "Not necessarily," he said. At last the funeral was over, possibly because there was nothing left to eat and drink. Many of the departing witches were carrying small packages. That was another tradition. A lot of things in the cottage were the property of the cottage, and would pass on to the next witch, but everything else got passed on to the soon-to-be-late witch's friends. Since the old witch would be alive when this happened, it saved squabbling. That was the thing about witches. They were, according to Granny Weatherwax, "people what looks up." She didn't explain. She seldom explained. She didn't mean people who looked at the sky; everyone did that. She probably meant that they looked up above the everyday chores and wondered, "What's all this about? How does it work? What should I do? What am I for?" And possibly even: "Is there anything worn under the kilt?" Perhaps that was why odd, in a witch, was normal… …but they'd squabble like polecats over a silver spoon that wasn't even silver. As it was, several were waiting impatiently by the sink for Tiffany to wash some big dishes that Miss Treason had promised to them, and which had held the funeral roast potatoes and sausage rolls. At least there was no problem with leftovers. Nanny Ogg, a witch who'd invented Leftover Sandwiches Soup, was waiting in the scullery with her big string bag and a bigger grin. "We were going to have the rest and potatoes for supper," said Tiffany angrily, but with a certain amount of interest. She'd met Nanny Ogg before and quite liked her, but Miss Treason had said, darkly, that Nanny Ogg was "a disgusting old baggage." That sort of comment attracts your attention. "Fair enough," said Nanny Ogg as Tiffany placed her hand on the meat. "You did a good job here today, Tiff. People notice that." She was gone before Tiffany could recover. One of them had very nearly said thank you! Amazing! Petulia helped her bring the big table indoors and finish the tidying up. She hesitated, though, before she left. "Um…you will be all right, will you?" she said. "It's all a bit…strange."
"We're supposed to be no strangers to strangeness," said Tiffany primly. "Anyway, you've sat up with the dead and dying, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes. Mostly pigs, though. Some humans. Um…I don't mind staying, if you like," Petulia added in a leaving-as-soon-as-possible voice. "Thank you. But after all, what's the worst that can happen?" Petulia stared at her and then said, "Well, let me think…a thousand vampire demons, each one with enormous—"
"'Thank you for coming to my funeral' letters?" asked Tiffany weakly. "Indeed. And they're not often written, you may be sure of that. You know the girl Annagramma Hawkin will be the new witch here? I am sure she would like you to stay on. At least for a while."
"I don't think that would be a good idea," said Tiffany. "Quite," said Miss Treason smiling. "I suspect the girl Weatherwax has arrangements in mind. It will be interesting to see how Mrs. Earwig's brand of witchcraft suits my silly people, although it may be best to observe events from behind a rock. Or, in my case, under it." She put the letters aside, and both the ravens turned to look at Tiffany. "You have been here with me only three months."
"That's right, Miss Treason."
"We have not talked, woman to woman. I should have taught you more."
"Erm…I did say he's not actually my—" Tiffany began, feeling herself start to blush. "But do not become a strumpet like Mrs. Ogg," said Miss Treason. "I'm not very musical," said Tiffany uncertainly. Miss Treason laughed. "You have a dictionary, I believe," she said. "A strange but useful thing for a girl to have."
"Yes, Miss Treason."
"On my bookshelf you will find a rather larger dictionary. An Unexpurgated Dictionary. A useful thing for a young woman to have. You may take it, and one other book. The others will remain with the cottage. You may also have my broomstick. Everything else, of course, belongs to the cottage."
"Thank you very much, Miss Treason. I'd like to take that book about mythology."
"I'm sure they'll miss you," said Tiffany. "Ha! I'm the wicked ol' witch, girl. They feared me, and did what they were told! They feared joke skulls and silly stories. I chose fear. I knew they'd never love me for telling 'em the truth, so I made certain of their fear. No, they'll be relieved to hear the witch is dead. And now I shall tell you something vitally important. It is the secret of my long life." Ah, thought Tiffany, and she leaned forward. "The important thing," said Miss Treason, "is to stay the passage of the wind. You should avoid rumbustious fruits and vegetables. Beans are the worst, take it from me."
"I don't think I understand—" Tiffany began. "Try not to fart, in a nutshell."
"In a nutshell I imagine it would be pretty unpleasant!" said Tiffany nervously. She couldn't believe she was being told this. "This is no joking matter," said Miss Treason. "The human body only has so much air in it. You have to make it last. One plate of beans can take a year off your life. I have avoided rumbustiousness all my days. I am an old person and that means what I say is wisdom!" She gave the bewildered Tiffany a stern look. "Do you understand, child?" Tiffany's mind raced. Everything is a test! "No," she said. "I'm not a child and that's nonsense, not wisdom!" The stern look cracked into a smile. "Yes," said Miss Treason. "Total gibberish. But you've got to admit it's a corker, all the same, right? You definitely believed it, just for a moment? The villagers did last year. You should have seen the way they walked about for a few weeks! The strained looks on their faces quite cheered me up! How are things with the Wintersmith? All gone quiet, has it?" The question was like a sharp knife in a slice of cake, and arrived so suddenly that Tiffany gasped. "I woke up early and wondered where you were," said Miss Treason. It was so easy to forget that she used other people's ears and eyes all the time, in an absentminded sort of way. "Did you see the roses?" asked Tiffany. She hadn't felt the telltale tickle, but she hadn't exactly had much time for anything but worry. "Yes. Fine things," said Miss Treason. "I wish I could help you, Tiffany, but I'm going to be otherwise occupied. And romance is an area where I cannot offer much advice."