Wintersmith

"Don't babble! I thought you were clever! I really don't know what this is about, but if I had that thing after me, I wouldn't stand around babbling!" Annagramma pulled across the Wicked Witch De-Luxe Mask With Free Dangling Booger, adjusted the hang of the booger, and turned to the villagers, who'd been rooted to the spot all this time. "What are you all staring at? Haven't you ever seen a witch before?" she shouted. "Go back home! Oh, and I'll be down tomorrow with some physic for your little boy, Mrs. Carter!"

They stared at the green face, the rotted teeth, the stinking hair, and the huge booger, made in fact of glass, and fled.

Still drunk with terror and relief, Tiffany rocked gently, muttering "Iron enough to make a nail!" until Annagramma shook her. The thick flakes were dropping so fast that it was hard to see her face.

"Tiffany, broomstick. Broomstick fly," said Annagramma. "Fly a long way! Do you hear me! Somewhere safe!"

"But he…the poor thing thinks that…"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's all very important," said Annagramma, dragging her toward the cottage wall, where her broomstick leaned. She half pushed, half lifted Tiffany onto it and looked up. Snow was pouring out of the sky like a waterfall now.

"He's coming back!" she snapped, and said a few words under her breath. The broomstick shot straight up and disappeared into the fading, snow-filled light.

Granny Weatherwax looked up from the saucer of ink, in which a tiny Tiffany was disappearing into the whiteness of the blizzard. She was smiling, but with Granny Weatherwax this did not necessarily mean that something nice was happening.

"We could ha' taken him doon easy," said Rob Anybody reproachfully. "Ye should ha' let us."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he'd have frozen you solid?" said Granny. "Besides, there's a bigger task ahead of the Nac Mac Feegles. Your big wee hag needs you to do two things. One of them is hard, the other one is very hard."

The Feegles cheered up when they heard this. They were everywhere in Mrs. Ogg's kitchen. Some were perched on Nanny Ogg herself, and Miss Tick looked very uncomfortable surrounded by them. Unlike Miss Tick, Feegles rarely had an opportunity for a bath.

"Firstly," said Granny, "she will need you to go into the…Underworld, to fetch the Summer Lady."

The significant pause did not seem to bother the Feegles at all.

"Oh aye, we can do that," said Rob Anybody. "We can get into anywhere. An' that's the verra hard bit, is it?"

"And out again?" said Granny.

"Oh, aye," said Rob firmly. "Mostly we get thrown oot!"

"The very hard part," said Granny, "will be finding a Hero."

"That's no' hard," said Rob. "We're a' heroes here!" A cheer went up.

"Really?" said Granny. "Are you frightened to go into the Underworld, Rob Anybody?"

"Me? No!" Rob Anybody looked around at his brothers and grinned hugely.

"Spell the word ‘marmalade,' then." Granny Weatherwax pushed a pencil across Nanny Ogg's table and sat back in her chair. "Go on. Right now. And no one is to help you!"

Rob backed away. Granny Weatherwax was the hag o' all hags—he knew that. There was no telling what she might do to an errant Feegle.

He picked up the pencil nervously, and placed the pointy end against the wood of the table. Other Feegles clustered around, but under Granny's frown no one dared to even cheer him on.

Rob stared upward, his lips moving and sweat beading his forehead.

"Mmmmaa…" he said.

"One," said Granny.

Rob blinked. "Hey? Who's countin'?" he protested.

"Me," said Granny. The kitten You leaped onto her lap and curled up.

"Crivens, ye never said there wuz gonna be countin'!"

"Didn't I? The rules can change at any time! Two!"

Rob scribbled a passable M, hesitated, and then drew an R just as Granny said "Three!"

"There's gonna have tae be a ‘A' in there, Rob," said Billy Bigchin. He looked up defiantly at Granny and added: "I heard tell the rules can change at any time, right?"

"Certainly. Five!"

Rob scratched in an A and added another M in a burst of creativity.

"Six and a half," said Granny, calmly stroking the kitten.

"Whut? Ach, crivens," muttered Rob, and wiped a sweaty hand on his kilt. Then he gripped the pencil again and drew an L. It had a rather wavy foot because the pencil skidded out of his hands and the point broke.

He growled and drew his sword.

"Eight," said Granny. Wood shavings flew as Rob hacked a rather ragged fresh point out of the pencil.

"Nine." An A and a D were scribbled by a Rob, whose eyes were now bulging and whose cheeks were red.

"Ten." Rob stood to attention, looking mostly nervous but slightly proud, beside MRAMLAD. The Feegles cheered, and those nearest to him fanned him with their kilts.

"Eleven!"

"Whut? Crivens!" Rob scurried back to the end of the word and plonked down a small e.

"Twelve!"

"Ye can count all ye want tae, mistress," said Rob, flinging down the pencil, "but that's all the marmalade there is!" This got another cheer.