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December 4 - December 12, 2024
And what there was about the Queen’s voice was this: It said, in a friendly, understanding way, that she was right and you were wrong. And this wasn’t your fault, exactly. It was probably the fault of your parents, or your food, or something so terrible you’ve completely forgotten about it. It wasn’t your fault, the Queen understood, because you were a nice person. It was just such a terrible thing that all these bad influences had made you make the wrong choices. If only you’d admit that, Tiffany, then the world would be a much happier place— —this cold place, guarded by monsters, in a world
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Punctuality Riddle, who had been much loved by his young parents even though they’d named him Punctuality (reasoning that if children could be named after virtues like Patience, Faith, and Prudence, what was wrong with a little good timekeeping?).
The Queen glared, as people without a sense of humor do when they’re confronted with a smile.
Tiffany kicked her on the leg. It wasn’t a witch thing. It was so nine years old, and she wished she could have thought of something better. On the other hand, she had hard boots and it was a good kick.
I know what you are, said her Third Thoughts. You’re something that’s never learned anything. You don’t know anything about people. You’re just . . . a child that’s got old. “Want a sweetie?” she whispered.
She shut her eyes and thought about snow, crisp and white as fresh bed sheets. She concentrated on the feel of it under her feet. All she had to do was wake up. . . . She was standing in snow. “Right,” said Rob Anybody. “I got out!” said Tiffany. “Ach, sometimes the door’s in yer ain heid,” said Rob Anybody.
“Whut does it eat?” Daft Wullie asked. “Ah, I know that,” said Tiffany, as the boat rocked on the swell. “Whales aren’t dangerous, because they just eat very small things . . .” “Row like the blazes, lads!” Rob Anybody yelled.
You’re going to turn into somebody like Miss Tick, said her Second Thoughts. Do you really want that? “Yes,” said a voice, and Tiffany realized that it was hers again. The anger rose up, joyfully. “Yes! I’m me! I am careful and logical and I look up things I don’t understand! When I hear people use the wrong words, I get edgy! I am good with cheese. I read books fast! I think! And I always have a piece of string! That’s the kind of person I am!”
The little part of Tiffany that was still thinking thought: That grass will be dead in the morning. She’s killing my turf.
She opened her eyes. She was still lying in the mud, and the Queen was laughing at her, and overhead the storm still raged. But she felt warm. In fact, she felt hot, red-hot with anger . . . anger at the bruised turf, anger at her own stupidity, anger at this beautiful creature whose only talent was control.
I have a duty! The anger overflowed. She stood up, clenched her fists, and screamed at the storm, putting into the scream all the rage that was inside her. Lightning struck the ground on either side of her. It did so twice. And it stayed there, crackling, and two dogs formed. Steam rose from their coats, and blue light sparked from their ears as they shook themselves. They looked attentively at Tiffany. The Queen gasped and vanished. “Come by, Lightning!” shouted Tiffany. “Away to me, Thunder!”
She didn’t want to turn around now. Forcing herself was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She was not afraid of what she might see. She was terribly, mortally frightened, afraid to the center of her bones of what she might not see.
“You mean we can have lawyers on oour side as well?” “Yes, of course,” said the toad. “You can have defense lawyers.”
“Vis-ne faciem capite repletam,” said the toad. “It was the best I could do in a hurry, but it means, approximately”—he gave a little cough—“‘Would you like a face which is full of head?’”
“Twelve hundred angry men!” they shouted. “Nae more courtroom drama!” “We ha’ the law on oour side!” “The law’s made to tak’ care o’ raskills!”
“The secret is not to dream,” she whispered. “The secret is to wake up. Waking up is harder. I have woken up and I am real. I know where I come from and I know where I’m going. You cannot fool me anymore. Or touch me. Or anything that is mine.”
We sleepwalk through our lives, because how could we live if we were always this awake?
They were gone, in a split-second blur of blue and red. But William the gonnagle remained for a moment. He bowed to Tiffany. “Ye didna do at all badly,” he said. “We’re proud o’ ye. So would yer grrranny be. Remember that. Ye are not unloved.”
“What happened?” Tiffany looked at her. How did you begin to answer something like that? “The Queen’s gone,” she said. That seemed to cover it. “What? The Queen has gone? Oh . . . er . . . these ladies are Mrs. Ogg—”
“And this,” said Miss Tick, “is Miss—” “Mistress,” snapped the other witch. “I’m so sorry, Mistress Weatherwax,” said Miss Tick. “Very, very good witches,” she whispered to Tiffany. “I was very lucky to find them. They respect witches up in the mountains.”
“You beat the Queen, at the end. But you had help, I think.” “Yes, I did,” said Tiffany. “And that was—?” “I don’t ask you your business,” said Tiffany, before she even realized she was going to say it.
“And what do you really do?” said Tiffany. The thin witch hesitated for a moment, and then: “We look to . . . the edges,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “There’s a lot of edges, more than people know. Between life and death, this world and the next, night and day, right and wrong . . . an’ they need watchin’. We watch ’em, we guard the sum of things. And we never ask for any reward. That’s important.”
“Oh, yes. When they’re a bit older than me.” “Well, when you’re a bit older than you, Miss Tick here will come and find you,” said Mistress Weatherwax. Miss Tick nodded. “There’re elderly witches up in the mountains who’ll pass on what they know in exchange for a bit of help around the cottage. This place will be watched over while you’re gone, you may depend on it. In the meantime you’ll get three meals a day, your own bed, use of broomstick . . . that’s the way we do it. All right?” “Yes,” said Tiffany, grinning happily.
Tiffany wondered if the witch could read minds. “Minds? No,” said Mistress Weatherwax, climbing onto her broomstick. “Faces, yes. Come here, young lady.”
It’s still magic even if you know how it’s done, Tiffany thought.
She smiled again, and it was Granny Aching’s smile. Things would be different one day. But you had to start small, like oak trees.
People say things like “listen to your heart,” but witches learn to listen to other things too. It’s amazing what your kidneys can tell you.
