“Hurts, don’t it?” said Granny, pleasantly. “Now, I knows who you are, and I reckon you knows who I am. You sell pots and pans and they ain’t bad, as I recall. But if I put out the word, you’ll have no business in my hills. Be told. Better to feed your beast than whip it. You hear me?”
With his eyes shut and his hands shaking, the man nodded.
“That’ll do,” said Granny Aching, and instantly the dogs became, once more, two ordinary sheepdogs, who came and sat on either side of her with their tongues hanging out.
Tiffany watched the man unpack some of the load and strap it to his own back and then, with great care, urge the donkey on along the road. Granny watched him go while filling her pipe with Jolly Sailor. Then, as she lit it, she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her:
“Them as can do has to do for them as can’t. And someone has to speak up for them as has no voices.”
Tiffany thought: Is this what being a witch is? It wasn’t what I expected! When do the good bits happen?
She stood up. “Let’s keep going,” she said.
“Aren’t ye tired?” said Rob.
“We’re going to keep going!”
“Aye? Weel, she’s probably headed for her place beyond the wood. If we dinna carry ye, it’ll tak’ aboout a coupla hours—”
“I’ll walk!” The memory of the huge dead face of the drome was trying to come back into her mind, but fury gave it no space. “Where’s the frying pan? Thank you! Let’s go!”
She set off through the strange trees. The hoofprints almost glowed in the gloom. Here and there other tracks crossed them, tracks that could have been bird feet, rough round footprints that could have been made by anything, squiggly lines that a snake might make, if there were such things as snow snakes.
The pictsies were running in line with her on either side.
Even with the edge of the fury dying away, it was hard looking at things here without her head aching. Things that seemed far off got closer too quickly, trees changed shape as she passed them.
Almost unreal, William had said. Nearly a dream. This world didn’t have enough reality in it for distances and shapes to work properly. Once again the magic artist was painting madly. If she looked hard at a tree, it changed and became more treelike and less like something drawn by Wentworth with his eyes shut.
This is a made-up world, Tiffany thought. Almost like a story. The trees don’t have to be very detailed because who looks at trees in a story?
She stopped in a small clearing and stared hard at a tree. It seemed to know it was being watched. It became more real. The bark roughened, and proper twigs grew on the ends of the branches.
The snow was melting around her feet, too. Although melting was the wrong word. It was just disappearing, leaving leaves and grass.
If I was a world that didn’t have enough reality to go around, Tiffany thought, then snow would be quite handy. It doesn’t take a lot of effort. It’s just white stuff. Everything looks white and simple. But I can make it complicated. I’m more real than this place.
She heard a buzzing overhead and looked up.
And suddenly the air was filling with small people, smaller than the Feegle, with wings like dragonflies’. There was a golden glow around them. Tiffany, entranced, reached out a hand—
At the same moment what felt like the entire clan of Nac Mac Feegle landed on her back and sent her sliding into a snowdrift.
When she struggled out, the clearing was a battlefield. The pictsies were jumping and slashing at the flying creatures, which buzzed around them like wasps. As she stared, two of them dived onto Rob Anybody and lifted him off his feet by his hair.
He rose in the air, yelling and struggling. Tiffany leaped up and grabbed him around the waist, flailing at the creatures with her other hand. They let go of the pictsie and dodged easily, zipping through the air as fast as hummingbirds. One of them bit her on the finger before buzzing away.
Somewhere a voice went: “Oooooooooooooeeerrrrrr…”
Rob struggled in Tiffany’s grip. “Quick, put me doon!” he yelled. “There’s gonna be poetry!”
CHAPTER 9
Lost Boys
The moan rolled around the clearing, as mournful as a month of Mondays.
“…rrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaoooooooo…”