The Wee Free Men

'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.'

Tiffany was impressed that anyone could make Miss Tick flustered, but the other witch seemed to do it just by standing there. She was tall—except, Tiffany realized, she wasn't that tall, but she stood tall, which could easily fool you if you weren't paying attention—and like the other witch wore a rather shabby black dress. She had an elderly, thin face that gave nothing away. Piercing blue eyes looked Tiffany up and down, from head to toe.

'You've got good boots,' said the witch.

'Tell Mistress Weatherwax what happened—' Miss Tick began. But the witch held up a hand and Miss Tick stopped talking immediately. Tiffany was even more impressed now.

Mistress Weatherwax gave Tiffany a look that went right through her head and about five miles out the other side. Then she walked over to the stones, and waved one hand. It was an odd movement, a kind of wriggle in the air, but for a moment it left a glowing line. There was a noise, a chord, as though all sorts of sounds were happening at the same time. It snapped into silence.

'Jolly Sailor tobacco?' said the witch.

'Yes,' said Tiffany.

The witch waved a hand again. There was another sharp, complicated noise. Mistress Weatherwax turned suddenly and stared at the distant pimple that was the pictsie mound.

'Nac Mac Feegle? Kelda? she demanded.

'Er, yes. Only temporary,' said Tiffany.

'Hmmph,' said Mistress Weatherwax.

Wave. Sound.

'Frying pan?

'Yes. It's got lost, though.'

'Hmm.'

Wave. Sound. It was as if the woman was extracting her history from the air.

'Filled buckets?

'And they filled up the log box, too,' said Tiffany.

Wave. Sound.

'I see. Special Sheep Liniment?'

'Yes, my father says it puts—'

Wave. Sound.

'Ah. Land of snow.' Wave. Sound. 'A queen.' Wave. Sound. 'Fighting.'

Wave, sound. 'On the sea?' Wave, sound, wave, sound...

Mistress Weatherwax stared at the flashing air, looking at pictures only she could see. Mrs Ogg sat down beside Tiffany, her little legs going up in the air as she made herself comfortable.

'I've tried Jolly Sailor,' she said. 'Smells like toe-nails, don't it?'

'Yes, it does!' said Tiffany, gratefully.

'To be a kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, you have to marry one of 'em, don't you?' said Mrs Ogg, innocently.

'Ah, yes, but I found a way round that,' said Tiffany. She told her. Mrs Ogg laughed. It was a sociable kind of laugh, the sort of laugh that makes you comfortable.

The noise and flashing stopped. Mistress Weatherwax stood staring at nothing for a moment, and then said: '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. Miss Tick gasped. Mrs Ogg's eyes twinkled, and she looked from Tiffany to Mistress Weatherwax like someone watching a tennis match.

"Tiffany, Mistress Weatherwax is the most famous witch in all—' Miss Tick began severely, but the witch waved a hand at her again. I really must learn how to do that, Tiffany thought.

Then Mistress Weatherwax took off her pointed hat and bowed to Tiffany.

'Well said,' she said, straightening up and staring directly at Tiffany 'I didn't have no right to ask you. This is your country, we're here by your leave. I show you respect as you in turn will respect me.' The air seemed to freeze for a moment and the skies to darken. Then Mistress Weatherwax went on, as if the moment of thunder hadn't happened: 'But if one day you care to tell me more, I should be grateful to hear about it,' she said, in a conversational voice. 'And them creatures that look like they're made of dough, I should like to know more about them, too. Never run across them before. And your grandmother sounds the kind of person I would have liked to meet.' She straightened up. 'In the meantime, we'd better see if there's anything left you can still be taught.'

'Is this where I learn about the witches' school?' said Tiffany. There was a moment of silence.

'Witches' school?' said Mistress Weatherwax.

'Um,' said Miss Tick.

'You were being metapahorrical, weren't you?' said Tiffany.

'Metapahorrical?' said Mrs Ogg, wrinkling her forehead.

'She means metaphorical,' mumbled Miss Tick.

'It's like stories,' said Tiffany. 'It's all right. I worked it out. This is the school, isn't it? The magic place? The world. Here. And you don't realize it until you look. Do you know the pictsies think this world is heaven? We just don't look. You can't give lessons on witchcraft. Not properly. It's all about how you are... you, I suppose.'

'Nicely said,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'You're sharp. But there's magic, too. You'll pick that up. It don't take much intelligence, otherwise wizards wouldn't be able to do it.'