Terry Pratchett - Discworld 30 - A Hat Full Of Sky

VIP免费
2024-12-14 0 0 301.2KB 73 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
Chapter 1
Leaving
It came crackling over the hills, like an invisible fog. Movement without a body tired it, and it
drifted very slowly. It wasn 't thinking now. It had been months since it had last thought,
because the brain that was doing the thinking for it had died. They always died. So now it was
naked again, and frightened. It could hide in one of the blobby white creatures that baa 'd
nervously as it crawled over the turf. But they had useless brains, capable of thinking only about
grass and making other things that went baa. No. They would not do. It needed, needed something
better, a strong mind, a mind with power, a mind that could keep it safe. It searched... The new
boots were all wrong. They were stiff and shiny. Shiny boots! That was disgraceful. Clean boots,
that was different. There was nothing wrong with putting a bit of a polish on boots to keep the
wet out. But boots had to work for a living. They shouldn't shine. Tiffany Aching, standing on the
rug in her bedroom, shook her head. She'd have to scuff the things as soon as possible. Then there
was the new straw hat, with a ribbon on it. She had some doubts about that, too. She tried to look
at herself in the mirror, which wasn't easy because the mirror was not much bigger than her hand,
and cracked and blotchy. She had to move it around to try and see as much of herself as possible
and remember how the bits fitted together. But today... well, she didn't usually do this sort of
thing in the house, but it was important to look smart today, and since no one was around... She
put the mirror down on the rickety table by the bed, stood in the middle of the threadbare rug,
shut her eyes and said: 'See me.' And away on the hills something, a thing with no body and no
mind but a terrible hunger and a bottomless fear, felt the power. It would have sniffed the air,
if it had a nose. It searched. It found. Such a strange mind, like a lot of minds inside one
another, getting smaller and smaller! So strong! So close! It changed direction slightly, and went
a little faster. As it moved, it made a noise like a swarm of flies. The sheep, nervous for a
moment about something they couldn 't see, hear or smell, baa 'd..... and went back to chewing
grass. Tiffany opened her eyes. There she was, a few feet away from herself. She could see the
back of her own head. Carefully, she moved around the room, not looking down at the 'her' that was
moving, because she found that if she did that then the trick was over. It was quite difficult,
moving like that, but at last she was in front of herself and looking herself up and down. Brown
hair to match brown eyes... there was nothing she could do about that. At least her hair was clean
and she'd washed her face. She had a new dress on, which improved things a bit. It was so unusual
to buy new clothes in the Aching family that, of course, it was bought big so that she'd 'grow
into it'. But at least it was pale green, and it didn't actually touch the floor. With the shiny
new boots and the straw hat she looked... like a farmer's daughter, quite respectable, going off
to her first job. It'd have to do. From here she could see the pointy hat on her head, but she had
to look hard for it. It was like a glint in the air, gone as soon as you saw it. That's why she'd
been worried about the new straw hat, but it had simply gone through it as if the new hat wasn't
there. This was because, in a way, it wasn't. It was invisible, except in the rain. Sun and wind
went straight through, but rain and snow somehow saw it, and treated it as if it were real. She'd
been given it by the greatest witch in the world, a real witch with a black dress and a black hat
and eyes that could go through you like turpentine goes through a sick sheep. It had been a kind
of reward. Tiffany had done magic, serious magic. Before she had done it she hadn't known that she
could; when she had been doing it she hadn't known that she was; and after she had done it she
hadn't known how she had. Now she had to learn how. 'See me not,' she said. The vision of her...
or whatever it was, because she was not exactly sure about this trick... vanished. It had been a
shock, the first time she'd done this. But she'd always found it easy to see herself, at least in
her head. All her memories were like little pictures of herself doing things or watching things,
rather than the view from the two holes in the front of her head. There was a part of her that was
always watching her. Miss Tick- another witch, but one who was easier to talk to than the witch
who'd given Tiffany the hat- had said that a witch had to know how to 'stand apart', and that
she'd find out more when her talent grew, so Tiffany supposed the 'see me' was part of this.
Sometimes Tiffany thought she ought to talk to Miss Tick about 'see me'. It felt as if she was
stepping out of her body, but still had a sort of ghost body that could walk around. It all worked
as long as her ghost eyes didn't look down and see that she was just a ghost body. If that
happened, some part of her panicked and she found herself back in her solid body immediately.
Tiffany had, in the end, decided to keep this to herself. You didn't have to tell a teacher
everything. Anyway, it was a good trick for when you didn't have a mirror. Miss Tick was a sort of
witch-finder. That seemed to be how witchcraft worked. Some witches kept a magical lookout for
girls who showed promise, and found them an older witch to help them along. They didn't teach you
how to do it. They taught you how to know what you were doing. Witches were a bit like cats. They
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (1 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
didn't much like one another's company, but they did like to know where all the other witches
were, just in case they needed them. And what you might need them for was to tell you, as a
friend, that you were beginning to cackle. Witches didn't fear much, Miss Tick had said, but what
the powerful ones were afraid of, even if they didn't talk about it, was what they called 'going
to the bad'. It was too easy to slip into careless little cruelties because you had power and
other people hadn't, too easy to think other people didn't matter much, too easy to think that
ideas like right and wrong didn't apply to you. At the end of that road was you dribbling and
cackling to yourself all alone in a gingerbread house, growing warts on your nose. Witches needed
to know other witches were watching them. And that, Tiffany thought, was why the hat was there.
She could touch it any time, provided she shut her eyes. It was a kind of reminder... Tiffany!'
her mother shouted up the stairs. 'Miss Tick's here!' Yesterday, Tiffany had said goodbye to
Granny Aching... The iron wheels of the old shepherding hut were half buried in the turf, high up
on the hills. The potbellied stove, which still stood lopsided in the grass, was red with rust.
The chalk hills were taking them, just like they'd taken the bones of Granny Aching. The rest of
the hut had been burned on the day she'd been buried. No shepherd would have dared to use it, let
alone spend the night there. Granny Aching had been too big in people's minds, too hard to
replace. Night and day, in all seasons, she was the Chalk country: its best shepherd, its wisest
woman, and its memory. It was as if the green downland had a soul that walked about in old boots
and a sacking apron and smoked a foul old pipe and dosed sheep with turpentine. The shepherds said
that Granny Aching had cussed the sky blue. They called the fluffy little white clouds of summer
'Granny Aching's little lambs'. And although they laughed when they said these things, part of
them was not joking. No shepherd would have dared presume to live in that hut, no shepherd at all.
So they had cut the turf and buried Granny Aching in the Chalk, watered the turf afterwards to
leave no mark, then they burned her hut. Sheep's wool, Jolly Sailor tobacco and turpentine... ...
had been the smells of the shepherding hut, and the smell of Granny Aching. Such things have a
hold on people that goes right to the heart. Tiffany only had to smell them now to be back there,
in the warmth and silence and safety of the hut. It was the place she had gone to when she was
upset, and the place she had gone to when she was happy. And Granny Aching would always smile and
make tea and say nothing. And nothing bad could happen in the shepherding hut. It was a fort
against the world. Even now, after Granny had gone, Tiffany still liked to go up there. Tiffany
stood there, while the wind blew over the turf and sheep bells clonked in the distance. 'I've
got...' She cleared her throat. I've got to go away. I... I've got to learn proper witching, and
there's no one here now to teach me, you see. I've got to... to look after the hills like you did.
I can... do things but I don't know things, and Miss Tick says what you don't know can kill you. I
want to be as good as you were. I will come back! I will come back soon! I promise I will come
back, better than I went!' A blue butterfly, blown off course by a gust, settled on Tiffany's
shoulder, opened and shut its wings once or twice, then fluttered away. Granny Aching had never
been at home with words. She collected silence like other people collected string. But she had a
way of saying nothing that said it all. Tiffany stayed for a while, until her tears had dried, and
then went off back down the hill, leaving the everlasting wind to curl around the wheels and
whistle down the chimney of the pot-bellied stove. Life went on. It wasn't unusual for girls as
young as Tiffany to go 'into service'. It meant working as a maid somewhere. Traditionally, you
started by helping an old lady who lived by herself; she wouldn't be able to pay much, but since
this was your first job you probably weren't worth much, either. In fact Tiffany practically ran
Home Farm's dairy by herself, if someone helped her lift the big milk churns, and her parents had
been surprised she had wanted to go into service at all. But as Tiffany said, it was something
everyone did. You got out into the world a little bit. You met new people. You never knew what it
could lead to. That, rather cunningly, got her mother on her side. Her mother's rich aunt had gone
off to be a scullery maid, and then a parlour maid, and had worked her way up until she was a
housekeeper and married to a butler and lived in a fine house. It wasn't her fine house, and she
only lived in a bit of it, but she was practically a lady. Tiffany didn't intend to be a lady.
This was all a ruse, anyway. And Miss Tick was in on it. You weren't allowed to charge money for
the witching, so all witches did some other job as well. Miss Tick was basically a witch disguised
as a teacher. She travelled around with the other wandering teachers who went in bands from place
to place teaching anything to anybody in exchange for food or old clothes. It was a good way to
get around, because people in the chalk country didn't trust witches. They thought they danced
around on moonlit nights without their drawers on. (Tiffany had made enquiries about this, and had
been slightly relieved to find out that you didn't have to do this to be a witch. You could if you
wanted to, but only if you were certain where all the nettles, thistles and hedgehogs were.) But
if it came to it, people were a bit wary of the wandering teachers, too. They were said to pinch
chickens and steal away children (which was true, in a way) and they went from village to village
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (2 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
with their gaudy carts and wore long robes with leather pads on the sleeves and strange flat hats
and talked amongst themselves using heathen lingo no one could understand, like 'Aha jacta esf and
'Quid pro quo'. It was quite easy for Miss Tick to lurk amongst them. Her pointy hat was a stealth
version, which looked just like a black straw hat with paper flowers on it until you pressed the
secret spring. Over the last year or so Tiffany's mother had been quite surprised, and a little
worried, at Tiffany's sudden thirst for education, which people in the village thought was a good
thing in moderation but if taken unwisely could lead to restlessness. Then a month ago, the
message had come: Be ready. Miss Tick, in her flowery hat, had visited the farm and had explained
to Mr and Mrs Aching that an elderly lady up in the mountains had heard of Tiffany's excellent
prowess with cheese and was willing to offer her the post of maid at four dollars a month, one day
off a week, her own bed and a week's holiday at Hogswatch. Tiffany knew her parents. Three dollars
a month was a bit low, and five dollars would be suspiciously high, but prowess with cheese was
worth the extra dollar. And a bed all to yourself was a very nice perk. Before most of Tiffany's
sisters had left home, sleeping two sisters to a bed had been normal. It was a good offer. Her
parents had been impressed and slightly scared of Miss Tick, but they had been brought up to
believe that people who knew more than you and used long words were quite important, so they'd
agreed. Tiffany accidentally heard them discussing it after she had gone to bed that night. It's
quite easy to accidentally overhear people talking downstairs if you hold an upturned glass to the
floorboards and accidentally put your ear to it. She heard her father say that Tiffany didn't have
to go away at all. She heard her mother say that all girls wondered what was out there in the
world, so it was best to get it out of her system. Besides, she was a very capable girl with a
good head on her shoulders. Why, with hard work there was no reason why one day she couldn't be a
servant to someone quite important, like Aunt Hetty had been, and live in a house with an inside
privy. Her father said she'd find that scrubbing floors was the same everywhere. Her mother said,
well, in that case she'd get bored and come back home after the year was up and, by the way, what
did 'prowess' mean? 'Superior skill', thought Tiffany to herself. They did have an old dictionary
in the house, but her mother never opened it because the sight of all those words upset her.
Tiffany had read it all the way through. And that was it, and suddenly here she was, a month
later, wrapping her old boots, which'd been worn by all her sisters before her, in a piece of
clean rag and putting them in the second-hand suitcase her mother had bought her, which looked as
if it was made of bad cardboard or pressed grape pips mixed with ear wax, and had to be held
together with string. There were goodbyes. She cried a bit, and her mother cried a lot, and her
little brother Wentworth cried as well just in case he could get a sweet for doing so. Tiffany's
father didn't cry but gave her a silver dollar and rather gruffly told her to be sure to write
home every week, which is a man's way of crying. She said goodbye to the cheeses in the dairy and
the sheep in the paddock and even to Ratbag the cat. Then everyone apart from the cheeses and the
cat stood at the gate and waved to her and Miss Tick -well, except for the sheep, too- until
they'd gone nearly all the way down the chalky-white lane to the village. And then there was
silence except for the sound of their boots on the flinty surface and the endless song of the
skylarks overhead. It was late August, and very hot, and the new boots pinched. 'I should take
them off, if I was you,' said Miss Tick after a while. Tiffany sat down by the side of the lane
and got her old boots out of the case. She didn't bother to ask how Miss Tick knew about the tight
new boots. Witches paid attention. The old boots, even though she had to wear several pairs of
socks with them, were much more comfortable and really easy to walk in. They had been walking
since long before Tiffany was born, and knew how to do it. 'And are we going to see any... little
men today?' Miss Tick went on, once they were walking again. 'I don't know, Miss Tick,' said
Tiffany. 'I told them a month ago I was leaving. They're very busy at this time of year. But
there's always one or two of them watching me.' Miss Tick looked around quickly. 'I can't see
anything,' she said. 'Or hear anything.' 'No, that's how you can tell they're there,' said
Tiffany. 'It's always a bit quieter if they're watching me. But they won't show themselves while
you're with me. They're a bit frightened of hags- that's their word for witches,' she added
quickly. 'It's nothing personal.' Miss Tick sighed. 'When I was a little girl I'd have loved to
see the pictsies,' she said. 'I used to put out little saucers of milk. Of course, later on I
realized that wasn't quite the thing to do.' 'No, you should have used strong licker,' said
Tiffany. She glanced at the hedge and thought she saw, just for the snap of a second, a flash of
red hair. And she smiled, a little nervously. Tiffany had been, if only for a few days, the
nearest a human being can be to a queen of the fairies. Admittedly, she'd been called a kelda
rather than a queen, and the Nac Mac Feegle should only be called fairies to their face if you
were looking for a fight. On the other hand the Nac Mac Feegle were always looking for a fight, in
a cheerful sort of way, and when they had no one to fight they fought one another, and if one was
all by himself he'd kick his own nose just to keep in practice. Technically, they had lived in
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (3 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
Fairyland, but had been thrown out, probably for being drunk. And now, because if you'd ever been
their kelda they never forgot you . .. ... they were always there. There was always one somewhere
on the farm, or circling on a buzzard high over the chalk downs. And they watched her, to help and
protect her, whether she wanted them to or not. Tiffany had been as polite as possible about this.
She'd hidden her diary right at the back of a drawer and blocked up the cracks in the privy with
wadded paper, and done her best with the gaps in her bedroom floorboards, too. They were little
men, after all. She was sure they tried to remain unseen so as not to disturb her, but she'd got
very good at spotting them. They granted wishes- not the magical fairytale three wishes, the ones
that always go wrong in the end, but ordinary, everyday ones. The Nac Mac Feegle were immensely
strong and fearless and incredibly fast, but they weren't good at understanding that what people
said often wasn't what they meant. One day, in the dairy, Tiffany had said, I wish I had a sharper
knife to cut this cheese,' and her mother's sharpest knife was quivering in the table beside her
almost before she'd got the words out. 'I wish this rain would clear up' was probably OK, because
the Feegles couldn't do actual magic, but she had learned to be careful not to wish for anything
that might be achievable by some small, determined, strong, fearless and fast men who were also
not above giving someone a good kicking if they felt like it. Wishes needed thought. She was never
likely to say, out loud, 'I wish that I could marry a handsome prince,' but knowing that if you
did you'd probably open the door to find a stunned prince, a tied-up priest and a Nac Mac Feegle
grinning cheerfully and ready to act as Best Man definitely made you watch what you said. But they
could be helpful, in a haphazard way, and she'd taken to leaving out for them things that the
family didn't need but might be useful to little people, like tiny mustard spoons, pins, a soup
bowl that would make a nice bath for a Feegle and, in case they didn't get the message, some soap.
They didn't steal the soap. Her last visit to the ancient burial mound high on the chalk down
where the pictsies lived had been to attend the wedding of Rob Anybody, the Big Man of the clan,
to Jeannie of the Long Lake. She was going to be the new kelda and spend most of the rest of her
life in the mound, having babies like a queen bee. Feegles from other clans had all turned up for
the celebration, because if there's one thing a Feegle likes more than a party, it's a bigger
party, and if there's anything better than a bigger party, it's a bigger party with someone else
paying for the drink. To be honest, Tiffany had felt a bit out of place, being ten times as tall
as the next tallest person there, but she'd been treated very well and Rob Anybody had made a long
speech about her, calling her 'our fine big wee young hag' before falling face first into the
pudding. It had all been very hot, and very loud, but she'd joined in the cheer when Jeannie had
carried Rob Anybody over a tiny broomstick that had been laid on the floor. Traditionally, both
the bride and the groom should jump over the broomstick but, equally traditionally, no
selfrespecting Feegle would be sober on his wedding day. She'd been warned that it would be a good
idea to leave then, because of the traditional fight between the bride's clan and the groom's
clan, which could take until Friday. Tiffany had bowed to Jeannie, because that's what hags did,
and had a good look at her. She was small and sweet and very pretty. She also had a glint in her
eye and a certain proud lift to her chin. Nac Mac Feegle girls were very rare and they grew up
knowing they were going to be keldas one day, and Tiffany had a definite feeling that Rob Anybody
was going to find married life trickier than he thought. She was going to be sorry to leave them
behind, but not terribly sorry. They were nice in a way but they could, after a while, get on your
nerves. Anyway, she was eleven now, and had a feeling that after a certain age you shouldn't slide
down holes in the ground to talk to little men. Besides, the look that Jeannie had given her, just
for a moment, had been pure poison. Tiffany had read its meaning without having to try. Tiffany
had been the kelda of the clan, even if it was only for a short time. She had also been engaged to
be married to Rob Anybody, even if that had only been a sort of political trick. Jeannie knew all
that. And the look had said: He is mine. This place is mine. I do not want you here! Keep out! A
pool of silence followed Tiffany and Miss Tick down the lane, since the usual things that rustle
in hedges tended to keep very quiet when the Nac Mac Feegle were around. They reached the little
village green and sat down to wait for the carrier's cart that went just a bit faster than walking
pace and would take five hours to get to the village of Twoshirts, where- Tiffany's parents
thought- they'd get the big coach that ran all the way to the distant mountains and beyond.
Tiffany could actually see it coming up the road when she heard the hoofbeats across the green.
She turned, and her heart seemed to leap and sink at the same time. It was Roland, the Baron's
son, on a fine black horse. He leaped down before the horse had stopped, and then stood there
looking embarrassed. 'Ah, I see a very fine and interesting example of a... a... a big stone over
there,' said Miss Tick in a sticky-sweet voice. I'll just go and have a look at it, shall I?'
Tiffany could have pinched her for that. 'Er, you're going, then,' said Roland as Miss Tick
hurried away. 'Yes,' said Tiffany. Roland looked as though he was going to explode with
nervousness. I got this for you,' he said. 'I had it made by a man, er, over in Yelp.' He held out
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (4 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
a package wrapped in soft paper. Tiffany took it and put it carefully in her pocket. Thank you,'
she said, and dropped a small curtsy. Strictly speaking that's what you had to do when you met a
nobleman, but it just made Roland blush and stutter. 'O-open it later on,' said Roland. 'Er, I
hope you'll like it.' 'Thank you,' said Tiffany sweetly. 'Here's the cart. Er... you don't want to
miss it.' 'Thank you,' said Tiffany, and curtsied again, because of the effect it had. It was a
little bit cruel, but sometimes you had to be. Anyway, it would be very hard to miss the cart. If
you ran fast, you could easily overtake it. It was so slow that 'stop' never came as a surprise.
There were no seats. The carrier went around the villages every other day, picking up packages
and, sometimes, people. You just found a place where you could get comfortable among the boxes of
fruit and rolls of cloth. Tiffany sat on the back of the cart, her old boots dangling over the
edge, swaying backwards and forwards as the cart lurched away on the rough road. Miss Tick sat
beside her, her black dress soon covered in chalk dust to the knees. Tiffany noticed that Roland
didn't get back on his horse until the cart was nearly out of sight. And she knew Miss Tick. By
now she would be just bursting to ask a question, because witches hate not knowing things. And,
sure enough, when the village was left behind, Miss Tick said, after a lot of shifting and
clearing her throat: 'Aren't you going to open it?' 'Open what?' said Tiffany, not looking at her.
'He gave you a present,' said Miss Tick. 'I thought you were examining an interesting stone, Miss
Tick,' said Tiffany accusingly. 'Well, it was only fairly interesting,' said Miss Tick, completely
unembarrassed. 'So... are you?' 'I'll wait until later,' said Tiffany. She didn't want a
discussion about Roland at this point or, really, at all. She didn't actually dislike him. She'd
found him in the land of the Queen of the Fairies and had sort of rescued him, although he had
been unconscious most of the time. A sudden meeting with the Nac Mac Feegle when they're feeling
edgy can do that to a person. Of course, without anyone actually lying, everyone at home had come
to believe that he had rescued her. A nine-year-old girl armed with a frying pan couldn't possibly
have rescued a thirteen-year-old boy who'd got a sword. Tiffany hadn't minded that. It stopped
people asking too many questions she didn't want to answer or even know how to. But he'd taken
to... hanging around. She kept accidentally running into him on walks more often than was really
possible, and he always seemed to be at the same village events she went to. He was always polite,
but she couldn't stand the way he kept looking like a spaniel that had been kicked. Admittedly-
and it took some admitting- he was a lot less of a twit than he had been. On the other hand, there
had been such of lot of twit to begin with. And then she thought, Horse, and wondered why until
she realized that her eyes had been watching the landscape while her brain stared at the past...
'I've never seen that before,' said Miss Tick. Tiffany welcomed it as an old friend. The Chalk
rose out of the plains quite suddenly on this side of the hills. There was a little valley cupped
into the fall of the down, and there was a carving in the curve it made. Turf had been cut away in
long flowing lines so that the bare chalk made the shape of an animal. 'It's the White Horse,'
said Tiffany. 'Why do they call it that?' said Miss Tick. Tiffany looked at her. 'Because the
chalk is white?' she suggested, trying not to suggest that Miss Tick was being a bit dense. 'No, I
meant why do they call it a horse? It doesn't look like a horse. It's just... flowing lines...'
... that look as if they're moving, Tiffany thought. It had been cut out of the turf right back in
the old days, people said, by the folk who'd built the stone circles and buried their kind in big
earth mounds. And they'd cut out the Horse at one end of this little green valley, ten times
bigger than a real horse and, if you didn't look at it with your mind right, the wrong shape, too.
Yet they must have known horses, owned horses, seen them every day, and they weren't stupid people
just because they lived a long time ago. Tiffany had once asked her father about the look of the
Horse, when they'd come all the way over here for a sheep fair, and he told her what Granny Aching
had told him, too, when he was a little boy. He passed on what she said word for word, and Tiffany
did the same now. "Taint what a horse looks like,' said Tiffany. It's what a horse be.' 'Oh,' said
Miss Tick. But because she was a teacher as well as a witch, and probably couldn't help herself,
she added, The funny thing is, of course, that officially there is no such thing as a white horse.
They're called grey.' [She had to say that, because she was a witch and a teacher and that's a
terrible combination. They want things to be right. They like things to be correct. If you want to
upset a witch you don't have to mess around with charms and spells, you just have to put her in a
room with a picture that's hung slightly crooked and watch her squirm.] 'Yes, I know,' said
Tiffany. This one's white,' she added, flatly. That quietened Miss Tick down, for a while, but she
seemed to have something on her mind. 'I expect you're upset about leaving the Chalk, aren't you?'
she said as the cart rattled on. 'No,' said Tiffany. It's OK to be,' said Miss Tick. Thank you,
but I'm not really,' said Tiffany. 'If you want to have a bit of a cry, you don't have to pretend
you've got some grit in your eye or anything-' I'm all right, actually,' said Tiffany. 'Honestly.'
'You see, if you bottle that sort of thing up it can cause terrible damage later on.' 'I'm not
bottling, Miss Tick.' In fact, Tiffany was a bit surprised at not crying, but she wasn't going to
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (5 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
tell Miss Tick that. She left a sort of space in her head to burst into tears in, but it wasn't
filling up. Perhaps it was because she'd wrapped up all those feelings and doubts and left them up
on the hill by the pot-bellied stove. 'And if of course you were feeling a bit downcast at the
moment, I'm sure you could open the present he-' Miss Tick tried. 'Tell me about Miss Level,'
Tiffany said quickly. The name and address was all she knew about the lady she was going to stay
with, but an address like 'Miss Level, Cottage in the Woods near the dead oak tree in Lost Man's
Lane, High Overhang, If Out Leave Letters in Old Boot by Door' sounded promising. 'Miss Level,
yes,' said Miss Tick, defeated. 'Er, yes. She's not really very old but she says she'll be happy
to have a third pair of hands around the place.' You couldn't slip words past Tiffany, not even if
you were Miss Tick. 'So there's someone else there already?' she said. 'Er... no. Not exactly,'
said Miss Tick. 'Then she's got four arms?' said Tiffany. Miss Tick had sounded like someone
trying to avoid a subject. Miss Tick sighed. It was difficult to talk to someone who paid
attention all the time. It put you off. 'It's best if you wait until you meet her,' she said.
'Anything I tell you will only give you the wrong idea. I'm sure you'll get along with her. She's
very good with people, and in her spare time she's a research witch. She keeps bees- and goats,
the milk of which, I believe, is very good indeed owing to homogenized fats.' 'What does a
research witch do?' Tiffany asked. 'Oh, it's a very ancient craft. She tries to find new spells by
learning how old ones were really done. You know all that stuff about "ear of bat and toe of
frog"? They never work, but Miss Level thinks it's because we don't know exactly what kind of
frog, or which toe-' 'I'm sorry, but I'm not going to help anyone chop up innocent frogs and
bats,' said Tiffany firmly. 'Oh, no, she never kills any!' said Miss Tick hurriedly. 'She only
uses creatures that have died naturally or been run over or committed suicide. Frogs can get quite
depressed at times.' The cart rolled on, down the white, dusty road, until it was lost from view.
Nothing happened. Skylarks sang, so high up they were invisible. Grass seeds filled the air. Sheep
baa'd, high up on the Chalk. And then something came along the road. It moved like a little slow
whirlwind, so it could be seen only by the dust it stirred up. As it went past, it made a noise
like a swarm of flies. Then it, too, disappeared down the hill... After a while a voice, low down
in the long grass, said: 'Ach, crivensl And it's on her trail, right enough!' A second voice said:
'Surely the old hag will spot it?' 'Whut? The teachin' hag? She's nae a proper hag!' 'She's got
the pointy hat under all them flowers, Big Yan,' said the second voice, a bit reproachfully. 'I
seen it. She presses a wee spring an' the point comes up!' 'Oh, aye, Hamish, an' I daresay she
does the readin' and the writin' well enough, but she disnae ken aboot stuff that's no' in books.
An' I'm no' showin' meself while she's aroond. She's the kind of a body that'd write things doon
about a man! C'mon, let's go and find the kelda!' The Nac Mac Feegle of the Chalk hated writing
for all kinds of reasons, but the biggest one was this: writing stays. It fastens words down. A
man can speak his mind and some nasty wee scuggan will write it down and who knows what he'll do
with those words? Ye might as weel nail a man's shadow tae the wall! But now they had a new kelda,
and a new kelda brings new ideas. That's how it's supposed to work. It stopped a clan getting too
set in its ways. Kelda Jeannie was from the Long Lake clan, up in the mountains- and they did
write things down. She didn't see why her husband shouldn't, either. And Rob Anybody was finding
out that Jeannie was definitely a kelda. Sweat was dripping off his forehead. He'd once fought a
wolf all by himself, and he'd cheerfully do it again with his eyes shut and one hand tied behind
him rather than do what he was doing now. He had mastered the first two rules of writing, as he
understood them. 1) Steal some paper. 2) Steal a pencil. Unfortunately there was more to it than
that. Now he held the stump of pencil in front of him in both hands, and leaned backwards as two
of his brothers pushed him towards the piece of paper pinned up on the chamber wall (it was an old
bill for sheep bells, stolen from the farm). The rest of the clan watched, in fascinated horror,
from the galleries around the walls. 'Mebbe I could kind o' ease my way inta it gently,' he
protested as his heels left little grooves in the packed-earth floor of the mound. 'Mebbe I could
just do one o' they commeras or full stoppies-' 'You're the Big Man, Rob Anybody, so it's fittin'
ye should be the first tae do the writin',' said Jeannie. 'I canna hae a husband who canna even
write his ain name. I showed you the letters, did I not?' 'Aye, wumman, the nasty, loopy, bendy
things!' growled Rob. 'I dinnae trust that Q, that's a letter that has it in for a man. That's a
letter with a sting, that one!' 'You just hold the pencil on the paper and I'll tell ye what marks
to make,' said Jeannie, folding her arms. 'Aye, but 'tis a bushel of trouble, writin',' said Rob.
'A word writ doon can hang a man!' 'Wheest, now, stop that! 'Tis easy!' snapped Jeannie. 'Bigjob
babbies can do it, and you're a full growed Feegle!' 'An' writin' even goes on sayin' a man's
wurds after he's deid' said Rob Anybody, waving the pencil as if trying to ward off evil spirits.
'Ye cannae tell me that's right!' 'Oh, so you're afeared o' the letters, is that it?' said
Jeannie, artfully. 'Ach, that's fine. All big men fear something. Take the pencil off'f him,
Wullie. Ye cannae ask a man to face his fears.' There was silence in the mound as Daft Wullie
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (6 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
nervously took the pencil stub from his brother. Every beady eye was turned to Rob Anybody. His
hands opened and shut. He started to breathe heavily, still glaring at the blank paper. He stuck
out his chin. 'Ach, ye're a harrrrd wumman, Jeannie Mac Feegle!' he said at last. He spat on his
hands and snatched back the pencil stub from Daft Wullie. 'Gimme that tool o' perdition! Them
letters won't know whut's hit them!' 'There's my brave lad!' said Jeannie as Rob squared up to the
paper. 'Right, then. The first letter is an R. That's the one that looks like a fat man walking,
remember?' The assembled pictsies watched as Rob Anybody, grunting fiercely and with his tongue
sticking out of the corner of his mouth, dragged the pencil through the curves and lines of the
letters. He looked at the kelda expectantly after each one. That's it,' she said, at last. 'A
bonny effort!' Rob Anybody stood back and looked critically at the paper. 'That's it?' he said.
'Aye,' said Jeannie. 'Ye've writ your ain name, Rob Anybody!' Rob stared at the letters again.
'I'm gonna go to pris'n noo?' he said. There was a polite cough from beside Jeannie. It had
belonged to the Toad. He had no other name, because toads don't go in for names. Despite sinister
forces that would have people think differently, no toad has ever been called Tommy the Toad, for
example. It's just not something that happens. This toad had once been a lawyer (a human lawyer;
toads manage without them) who'd been turned into a toad by a fairy godmother who'd intended to
turn him into a frog but had been a bit hazy on the difference. Now he lived in the Feegle mound,
where he ate worms and helped them out with the difficult thinking. I've told you, Mr Anybody,
that just having your name written down is no problem at all,' he said. There's nothing illegal
about the words "Rob Anybody". Unless, of course,' and the toad gave a little legal laugh, It's
meant as an instruction!' None of the Feegles laughed. They liked their humour to be a bit, well,
funnier. Rob Anybody stared at his very shaky writing. 'That's my name, aye?' 'It certainly is, Mr
Anybody.' 'An' no thin' bad's happenin' at a',' Rob noted. He looked closer. 'How can you tell
it's my name?' 'Ah, that'll be the readin' side o' things,' said Jeannie. 'That's where the
lettery things make a sound in yer heid?' said Rob. 'That's the bunny,' said the toad. 'But we
thought you'd like to start with the more physical aspect of the procedure.' 'Could I no' mebbe
just learn the writin' and leave the readin' to someone else?' Rob asked, without much hope. 'No,
my man's got to do both,' said Jeannie, folding her arms. When a female Feegle does that, there's
no hope left. 'Ach, it's a terrible thing for a man when his wumman gangs up on him wi' a toad,'
said Rob, shaking his head. But, when he turned to look at the grubby paper, there was just a hint
of pride in his face. 'Still, that's my name, right?' he said, grinning. Jeannie nodded. 'Just
there, all by itself and no' on a Wanted poster or anything. My name, drawn by me.' 'Yes, Rob,'
said the kelda. 'My name, under my thumb. No scunner can do anythin' aboot it? I've got my name,
nice and safe?' Jeannie looked at the toad, who shrugged. It was generally held by those who knew
them that most of the brains in the Nac Mac Feegle clans ended up in the women. 'A man's a man o'
some standin' when he's got his own name where no one can touch it,' said Rob Anybody. 'That's
serious magic, that is-' 'The R is the wrong way roond and you left the A and a Y out of
"Anybody",' said Jeannie, because it is a wife's job to stop her husband actually exploding with
pride. 'Ach, wumman, I didna' ken which way the fat man wuz walking',' said Rob, airily waving a
hand. 'Ye canna trust the fat man. That's the kind of thing us nat'ral writin' folk knows about.
One day he might walk this way, next day he might walk that way.' He beamed at his name: ROB NybO
D 'And I reckon you got it wrong wi' them Y's,' he went on. 'I reckon it should be N E Bo D.
That's Enn... eee... bor... dee, see? That's senseY He stuck the pencil into his hair, and gave
her a defiant look. Jeannie sighed. She'd grown up with seven hundred brothers and knew how they
thought, which was often quite fast while being totally in the wrong direction. And if they
couldn't bend their thinking around the world, they bent the world around their thinking. Usually,
her mother had told her, it was best not to argue. Actually, only half a dozen Feegles in the Long
Lake clan could read and write very well. They were considered odd, strange hobbies. After all,
what -when you got out of bed in the morning- were they good for? You didn't need to know them to
wrestle a trout or mug a rabbit or get drunk. The wind couldn't be read and you couldn't write on
water. But things written down lasted. They were the voices of Feegles who'd died long ago, who'd
seen strange things, who'd made strange discoveries. Whether you approved of that depended on how
creepy you thought it was. The Long Lake clan approved. Jeannie wanted the best for her new clan,
too. It wasn't easy, being a young kelda. You came to a new clan, with only a few of your brothers
as a bodyguard, where you married a husband and ended up with hundreds of brothers-inlaw. It could
be troubling if you let your mind dwell on it. At least back on the island in the Long Lake she'd
had her mother to talk to, but a kelda never went home again. Except for her bodyguard brothers, a
kelda was all alone. Jeannie was homesick and lonely and frightened of the future, which is why
she was about to get things wrong... 'Rob!' Hamish and Big Yan came tumbling through the fake
rabbit hole that was the entrance to the mound. Rob Anybody glared at them. 'We wuz engaged in a
lit'try enterprise,' he said. 'Yes, Rob, but we watched the big wee young hag safe awa', like you
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (7 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
said, but there's a hiver after her!' Hamish blurted out. 'Are ye sure?' said Rob, dropping his
pencil. 'I never heard o' one of them in this world!' 'Oh, aye,' said Big Yan. 'Its buzzin' fair
made my teeths ache!' 'So did you no' tell her, ye daftie?' said Rob. 'There's that other hag wi'
her, Rob,' said Big Yan. The educatin' hag.' 'Miss Tick?' said the toad. 'Aye, the one wi' a face
like a yard o' yoghurt,' said Big Yan. 'An' you said we wuzna' to show ourselves, Rob.' 'Aye,
weel, this is different-' Rob Anybody began, but stopped. He hadn't been a husband for very long,
but upon marriage men get a whole lot of extra senses bolted into their brain, and one is there to
tell a man that he's suddenly neck deep in real trouble. Jeannie was tapping her foot. Her arms
were still folded. She had the special smile women learn about when they marry, too, which seems
to say 'Yes, you're in big trouble but I'm going to let you dig yourself in even more deeply.'
'What's this about the big wee hag?' she said, her voice as small and meek as a mouse trained at
the Rodent College of Assassins. 'Oh, ah, ach, weel, aye...' Rob began, his face falling. 'Do ye
not bring her to mind, dear? She was at oor wedding, aye. She was oor kelda for a day or two, ye
ken. The Old One made her swear to that just afore she went back to the Land o' the Livin',' he
added, in case mentioning the wishes of the last kelda would deflect whatever storm was coming.
'It's as well tae keep an eye on her, ye ken, her being oor hag and a'...' Rob Anybody's voice
trailed away in the face of Jeannie's look. 'A true kelda has tae marry the Big Man,' said
Jeannie. 'Just like I married ye, Rob Anybody Feegle, and am I no' a good wife tae ye?' 'Oh, fine,
fine,' Rob burbled. 'But-' 'And ye cannae be married to two wives, because that would be bigamy,
would it not?' said Jeannie, her voice dangerously sweet. 'Ach, it wasnae that big,' said Rob
Anybody, desperately looking around for a way of escape. 'And it wuz only temp'ry, an' she's but a
lass, an' she wuz good at thinkin'-' 'I'm good at thinking, Rob Anybody, and I am the kelda o'
this clan, am I no'? There can only be one, is that not so? And I am thinking that there will be
no more chasin' after this big wee girl. Shame on ye, anyway. She'll no' want the like o' Big Yan
agawpin' at her all the time, I'm sure.' Rob Anybody hung his head. 'Aye... but...,' he said. 'But
what?' 'A hiver's chasin' the puir wee lass.' There was a long pause before Jeannie said, 'Are ye
sure?' 'Aye, Kelda,' said Big Yan. 'Once you hear that buzzin' ye never forget it.' Jeannie bit
her lip. Then, looking a little pale, she said, 'Ye said she's got the makin's o' a powerful hag,
Rob?' 'Aye, but nae one in his'try has survived a hiver! Ye cannae kill it, ye cannae stop it, ye
cannae-' 'But wuz ye no' tellin' me how the big wee girl even fought the Quin and won?' said
Jeannie. "Wanged her wi' a skillet, ye said. That means she's good, aye? If she is a true hag,
she'll find a way hersel'. We all ha' to dree our weird. Whatever's out there, she's got to face
it. If she cannae, she's no true hag.' 'Aye, but a hiver's worse than-' Rob began. 'She's off to
learn hagglin' from other hags,' said Jeannie. 'An' I must learn keldarin' all by myself. Ye must
hope she learns as fast as me, Rob Anybody.'
Chapter 2 Twoshirts and Two Noses
Twoshirts was just a bend in the road, with a name. There was nothing there but an inn for the
coaches, a blacksmith's shop, and a small store with the word SOUVENIRS written optimistically on
a scrap of cardboard in the window. And that was it. Around the place, separated by fields and
scraps of woodland, were the houses of people for whom Twoshirts was, presumably, the big city.
Every world is full of places like Twoshirts. They are places for people to come from, not go to.
It sat and baked silently in the hot afternoon sunlight. Right in the middle of the road an
elderly spaniel, mottled brown and white, dozed in the dust. Twoshirts was bigger than the village
back home and Tiffany had never seen souvenirs before. She went into the store and spent half a
penny on a small wood carving of two shirts on a washing line, and two postcards entitled 'View of
Twoshirts' which showed the souvenir shop and what was quite probably the same dog sleeping in the
road. The little old lady behind the counter called her 'young lady' and said that Twoshirts was
very popular later in the year, when people came from up to a mile around for the Cabbage-
Macerating Festival. When Tiffany came out she found Miss Tick standing next to the sleeping dog,
frowning back the way they'd come. Is there something the matter?' said Tiffany. 'What?' said Miss
Tick, as if she'd forgotten that Tiffany existed. 'Oh... no. I just... I thought I... look, shall
we go and have something to eat?' It took a while to find someone in the inn, but Miss Tick
wandered into the kitchens and found a woman who promised them some scones and a cup of tea. She
was actually quite surprised she'd promised that, since she hadn't intended to, it strictly
speaking being her afternoon free until the coach came, but Miss Tick had a way of asking
questions that got the answers she wanted. Miss Tick also asked for a fresh egg, not cooked, in
its shell. Witches were also good at asking questions that weren't followed by the other person
saying 'Why?' They sat and ate in the sun, on the bench outside the inn. Then Tiffany took out her
diary. She had one in the dairy too, but that was for cheese and butter records. This one was
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (8 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
personal. She'd bought it off a pedlar, cheap, because it was last year's. But, as he said, it had
the same number of days. It also had a lock, a little brass thing on a leather flap. It had its
own tiny key. It was the lock that had attracted Tiffany. At a certain age, you see the point of
locks. She wrote down 'Twoshirts', and spent some time thinking before adding ya bend in the
road'. Miss Tick kept staring at the road. 'Is there something wrong, Miss Tick?' Tiffany asked
again, looking up. 'I'm... not sure. Is anyone watching us?' Tiffany looked around. Twoshirts
slept in the heat. There was no one watching. 'No, Miss Tick.' The teacher removed her hat and
took from inside it a couple of pieces of wood and a reel of black thread. She rolled up her
sleeves, looking around quickly in case Twoshirts had sprouted a population, then broke off a
length of the thread and picked up the egg. Egg, thread and fingers blurred for a few seconds and
there was the egg, hanging from Miss Tick's fingers in a neat little black net. Tiffany was
impressed. But Miss Tick hadn't finished. She began to draw things from her pockets, and a witch
generally has a lot of pockets. There were some beads, a couple of feathers, a glass lens and one
or two strips of coloured paper. These all got threaded into the tangle of wood and cotton. 'What
is that?' said Tiffany. 'It's a shamble,' said Miss Tick, concentrating. 'Is it magic?' 'Not
exactly. It's trickery.' Miss Tick lifted her left hand. Feathers and beads and egg and pocket
junk spun in the web of threads. 'Hmm,' she said. 'Now let me see what I can see...' She pushed
the fingers of her right hand into the spiderwork of threads and pulled.. . Egg and glass and
beads and feathers danced through the tangle, and Tiffany was sure that at one point one thread
had passed straight through another. 'Oh,' she said. 'It's like Cat's Cradle!' 'You've played
that, have you?' said Miss Tick vaguely, still concentrating. 'I can do all the common shapes,'
said Tiffany. 'The Jewels and The Cradle and The House and The Flock and The Three Old Ladies, One
With A Squint, Carrying The Bucket Of Fish To Market When They Meet The Donkey... although you
need two people for that one, and I only ever did it once, and Betsy Tupper scratched her nose at
the wrong moment and I had to get some scissors to cut her loose Miss Tick's fingers worked like a
loom. 'Funny it should be a children's toy now,' she said. 'Aha...' She stared into the complex
web she had created. 'Can you see anything?' said Tiffany. If I may be allowed to concentrate,
child? Thank you...' Out in the road the sleeping dog woke, yawned and pulled itself to its feet.
It ambled over to the bench the two of them were sitting on, gave Tiffany a reproachful look and
then curled up by her feet. It smelled of old damp carpets. There's... something...' said Miss
Tick, very quietly. Panic gripped Tiffany. Sunlight reflected off the white dust of the road and
the stone wall opposite. Bees hummed between the little yellow flowers that grew on top of the
wall. By Tiffany's feet, the spaniel snorted and farted occasionally. But it was all wrong. She
could feel the pressure bearing down on her, pushing at her, pushing at the landscape, squeezing
it under the bright light of day. Miss Tick and her cradle of threads were motionless beside her,
frozen in the moment of bright horror. Only the threads moved, by themselves. The egg danced, the
glass glinted, the beads slid and jumped from string to string- The egg burst. The coach rolled
in. It arrived dragging the world behind it, in a cloud of dust and noise and hooves. It blotted
out the sun. Doors opened. Harness jingled. Horses steamed. The spaniel sat up and wagged its tail
hopefully. The pressure went- no, it fled. Beside Tiffany, Miss Tick pulled out a handkerchief and
started to wipe egg off her dress. The rest of the shamble had disappeared into a pocket with
remarkable speed. She smiled at Tiffany, and kept the smile as she spoke, making herself look
slightly mad. 'Don't get up, don't do anything, just be as quiet as a little mouse,' she said.
Tiffany felt in no state to do anything but sit still; she felt like you feel when you wake up
after a nightmare. The richer passengers got out of the coach, and the poorer ones climbed down
from the roof. Grumbling and stamping their feet, trailing road dust behind them, they
disappeared. 'Now,' said Miss Tick, when the inn door had swung shut, 'we're... we're going to go
for a- a stroll. See that little wood up there? That's where we're heading. And when Mr Crabber
the carter sees your father tomorrow he'll say he- he dropped you off here just before the coach
arrived and- and- and everyone will be happy and no one will have lied. That's important.' 'Miss
Tick?' said Tiffany, picking up the suitcase. 'Yes?' 'What happened just now?' 'I don't know,'
said the witch. 'Do you feel all right?' 'Er... yes. You've got some yolk on your hat.' And you're
very nervous, Tiffany thought. That was the most worrying part. 'I'm sorry about your dress,' she
added. 'It's seen a lot worse,' said Miss Tick. 'Let's go.' 'Miss Tick?' said Tiffany again as
they trudged away. 'Er, yes?' 'You are very nervous,' said Tiffany. 'If you told me why, that
means there's two of us, which is only half the nervousness each.' Miss Tick sighed. 'It was
probably nothing,' she said. 'Miss Tick, the egg exploded!' 'Yes. Um. A shamble, you see, can be
used as a simple magic detector and amplifier. It's actually very crude, but it's always useful to
make one in times of distress and confusion. I think I... probably didn't make it right. And
sometimes you do get big discharges of random magic' 'You made it because you were worried,' said
Tiffany. 'Worried? Certainly not. I am never worried!' snapped Miss Tick. 'However, since you
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (9 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discworld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt
raise the subject, I was concerned. Something was making me uneasy. Something close, I think. It
was probably nothing. In fact I feel a lot better now we're leaving.' But you don't look it,
Tiffany thought. And I was wrong. Two people means twice as much nervousness each. But she was
sure there was nothing magical about Twoshirts. It was just a bend in the road. Twenty minutes
later the passengers came out to get into the coach. The coachman did notice that the horses were
sweating, and wondered why he could hear a swarm of flies when there were no flies to be seen. The
dog that had been lying in the road was found later cowering in one of the inn's stables,
whimpering. The wood was about half an hour's walk away, with Miss Tick and Tiffany taking turns
to carry the suitcase. It was nothing special, as woods go, being mostly full-grown beech,
although once you know that beech drips unpleasant poisons on the ground beneath it to keep it
clear it's not quite the timber you thought it was. They sat on a log and waited for sunset. Miss
Tick told Tiffany about shambles. They're not magical then?' said Tiffany. 'No. They're something
to be magical through.' 'You mean like spectacles help you see but don't see for you?' 'That's
right, well done! Is a telescope magical? Certainly not. It's just glass in a tube, but with one
you could count the dragons on the moon. And... well, have you ever used a bow? No, probably not.
But a shamble can act like a bow, too. A bow stores up muscle power as the archer draws it, and
sends a heavy arrow much further than the archer could actually throw it. You can make one out of
anything, so long as it... looks right.' 'And then you can tell if magic is happening?' 'Yes, if
that's what you're looking for. When you're good at it you can use it to help you do magic
yourself, to really focus on what you have to do. You can use it for protection, like a curse-net,
or to send a spell, or... well, it's like those expensive penknives, you know? The ones with the
tiny saw and the scissors and the toothpick? Except that I don't think any witch has ever used a
shamble as a toothpick, ha ha. All young witches should learn how to make a shamble. Miss Level
will help you.' Tiffany looked around the wood. The shadows were growing longer, but they didn't
worry her. Bits of Miss Tick's teachings floated through her head: Always face what you fear. Have
just enough money, never too much, and some string. Even if it's not your fault it's your
responsibility. Witches deal with things. Never stand between two mirrors. Never cackle. Do what
you must do. Never lie, but you don't always have to be honest. Never wish. Especially don't wish
upon a star, which is astronomically stupid. Open your eyes, and then open your eyes again. 'Miss
Level has got long grey hair, has she?' she said. 'Oh, yes.' 'And she's quite a tall lady, just a
bit fat, and she wears quite a lot of necklaces,' Tiffany went on. 'And glasses on a chain. And
surprisingly high-heeled boots.' Miss Tick wasn't a fool. She looked around the clearing. 'Where
is she?' she said. 'Standing by the tree over there,' said Tiffany. Even so, Miss Tick had to
squint. What Tiffany had noticed was that witches filled space. In a way that was almost
impossible to describe, they seemed to be more real than others around them. They just showed up
more. But if they didn't want to be seen, they became amazingly hard to notice. They didn't hide,
they didn't magically fade away, although it might seem like that, but if you had to describe the
room afterwards you'd swear there hadn't been a witch in it. They just seemed to let themselves
get lost. 'Ah yes, well done,' said Miss Tick. 'I was wondering when you'd notice.' Ha! thought
Tiffany. Miss Level got realer as she walked towards them. She was all in black, but clattered
slightly as she walked because of all the black jewellery she wore, and she did have glasses, too,
which struck Tiffany as odd for a witch. Miss Level reminded Tiffany of a happy hen. And she had
two arms, the normal number. 'Ah, Miss Tick,' she said. 'And you must be Tiffany Aching.' Tiffany
knew enough to bow; witches don't curtsy (unless they want to embarrass Roland). 'I'd just like to
have a word with Miss Level, Tiffany, if you don't mind,' said Miss Tick, meaningfully. 'Senior
witch business.' Ha! thought Tiffany again, because she liked the sound of it. 'I'll just go and
have a look at a tree then, shall I?' she said with what she hoped was withering sarcasm. I should
use the bushes if I was you, dear,' Miss Level called after her. 'I don't like stopping once we're
airborne.' There were some holly bushes that made a decent screen, but after being talked to as
though she were ten years old Tiffany would rather have allowed her bladder to explode. I beat the
Queen of the Fairies! she thought as she wandered into the wood. All right, I'm not sure how,
because it's all like a dream now, but I did do it! She was angry at being sent away like that. A
little respect wouldn't hurt, would it? That's what the old witch Mistress Weatherwax had said,
wasn't it? 'I show you respect, as you in turn will respect me.' Mistress Weatherwax, the witch
who all the other witches secretly wanted to be like, had showed her respect, so you'd think the
others could make a bit of effort in that department. She said: 'See me.' ... and stepped out of
herself and walked away towards Miss Tick and Miss Level, in her invisible ghost body. She didn't
dare look down, in case she saw her feet weren't there. When she turned and looked back at her
solid body, she saw it standing demurely by the holly bushes, clearly too far away to be listening
to anyone's conversation. As Tiffany stealthily drew nearer she heard Miss Tick say: '- but quite
frighteningly precocious.' 'Oh dear. I've never got on very well with clever people,' said Miss
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ter...orld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txt (10 of 73) [10/18/2004 5:32:46 PM]
摘要：

file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Terry%20Pratchett%20-%20Discwo\rld%2031%20-%20A%20Hat%20Full%20Of%20Sky.txtChapter1LeavingItcamecracklingoverthehills,likeaninvisiblefog.Movementwithou\tabodytiredit,anditdriftedveryslowly.Itwasn'tthinkingnow.Ithadbeenmonthssincei\thadlastthought,becausetheb...

展开>> 收起<<
Terry Pratchett - Discworld 30 - A Hat Full Of Sky.pdf

共73页,预览15页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：73 页 大小：301.2KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-14

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 73
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注