A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld 32)

'She said you were a born witch and no witch should be without a hat!' said Dimity Hubbub, watching. That's nice,' said Tiffany. She was used to secondhand clothes. 'It's only an old hat,' said Annagramma. Tiffany looked up at the tall girl and let herself smile slowly. 'Annagramma?' she said, raising a hand with the fingers open. Annagramma backed away. 'Oh no,' she said. 'Don't you do that! Don't you do that!

Someone stop her doing that!'

'Do you want a balloon, Annagramma?' said Tiffany, sliding off the table. 'No! Please!' Annagramma took another step back, holding her arms in front of her face, and fell over a bench. Tiffany picked her up and patted her cheerfully on a cheek. 'Then I shan't buy you one,' she said. 'But please learn what “literally” really means, will you?' Annagramma smiled in a frozen kind of way. 'Er, yes,' she managed. 'Good. And then we will be friends.' She left the girl standing there, and went back to pick up the hat. 'Urn, you're probably still a bit woozy,' said Petulia. 'You probably don't understand.'

'Ha, I wasn't actually frightened, you know,' said Annagramma. 'It was all for fun, of course.' No one paid any attention. 'Understand what?' said Tiffany. 'It's her actual hatV the girls chorused. 'It's, like, if that hat could talk, what stories it would have to, you know, tell,' said Lucy Warbeck. 'It was just a joke,' said Annagramma to anyone who was listening. Tiffany looked at the hat. It was very battered, and not extremely clean. If that hat could talk, it would probably mutter. 'Where's Granny Weatherwax now?' she said. There was a gasp from the girls. This was nearly as impressive as the hat. 'Um . . . she doesn't mind you calling her that?' said Petulia. 'She invited me to,' said Tiffany. 'Only we heard you had to have known her for, like, a hundred years before she let you call her that. . .' said Lucy Warbeck. Tiffany shrugged. 'Well, anyway,' she said. 'Do you know where she is?'

'Oh, having tea with the other old witches and yakking on about chutney and how witches today aren't what they were when she was a girl,' said Lulu Darling. 'What?' said Tiffany. 'Just having teal' The young witches looked at one another in puzzlement. 'Um, there's buns too,' said Petulia. 'If that's important.'

'But she opened the door for me. The door into -out of the . . . the desert! You can't just sit down after that and have bunsY 'Um, the ones I saw had icing on,' Petulia ventured, nervously. 'They weren't just homemade-'

'Look,' said Lucy Warbeck, 'we didn't really, you know, see anything? You were just standing there with this, like, glow around you and we couldn't get in and then Gran- Mistress Weatherwax walked up and stepped right in and you both, you know, stood there? And then the glow went zip and vanished and you, like, fell over.'

'What Lucy's failing to say very accurately,' said Annagramma, 'is that we didn't actually see you go anywhere. I'm telling you this as a friend, of course. There was just this glow, which could have been anything.' Annagramma was going to be a good witch, Tiffany considered. She could tell

herself stories that she literally believed. And she could bounce back like a ball. 'Don't forget, I saw the horse,' said Harrieta Bilk. Annagramma rolled her eyes. 'Oh yes, Harrieta thinks she saw some kind of horse in the sky. Except it didn't look like a horse, she says. She says it looked like a horse would look if you took the actual horse away and just left the horsiness, right, Harrieta?'

'I didn't say that!' snapped Harrieta. 'Well, pardon me. That's what it sounded like.'

'Urn, and some people said they saw a white horse grazing in the next field, too, said Petulia. 'And a lot of the older witches said they felt a tremendous amount of-'

'Yes, some people thought they saw a horse in a field but it isn't there any more,' said Annagramma in the singsong voice she used when she thought it was all stupid. 'That must be very rare in the country, seeing horses in fields. Anyway, if there really was a white horse, it was grey.' Tiffany sat on the edge of the table, staring at her knees. Anger at Annagramma had jolted her to life, but now the tiredness was creeping back. 'I suppose none of you saw a little blue man, about six inches high, with red hair?' she said quietly. 'Anyone?' said Annagramma, with malicious cheerfulness. There was a general mumbling of 'no'. 'Sorry, Tiffany,' said Lucy. 'Don't worry,' said Annagramma. 'He probably just rode away on his white horse!' This is going to be like Fairyland all over again, thought Tiffany. Even I can't remember if it was real. Why should anyone believe me? But she had to try. 'There was a dark doorway,' she said slowly, 'and beyond it was a desert of black sand and it was quite light although there were stars in the sky, and Death was there. I spoke to him 'You spoke to him, did you?' said Annagramma. 'And what did he say, pray?'

'He didn't say “pray”,' said Tiffany. 'We didn't talk about much. But he didn't know what an egress was.'

'It's a small type of heron, isn't it?' said Harrieta. There was silence, except for the noise of the Trials outside. 'It's not your fault,' said Annagramma in what was, for her, almost a friendly voice. 'It's like I said: Mistress Weatherwax messes with people's heads.'

'What about the glow?' said Lucy. 'That was probably ball lightning,' said Annagramma. 'That's very strange stuff.'

'But people were, like, hammering on it! It was as hard as ice!'

'Ah, well, it probably felt like that,' said Annagramma, 'but it was . . . probably affecting people's muscles, maybe. I'm only trying to be helpful here,' she added. 'You've got to be sensible. She just stood there. You saw her. There weren't any doors or deserts. There was just her.' Tiffany sighed. She just felt tired. She just wanted to crawl off somewhere. She just wanted to go home. She'd walk there now if her boots weren't suddenly so uncomfortable.

While the girls argued, she undid the laces and tugged one off. Silver-black dust poured out. When it hit the ground it bounced, slowly, curving up into the air again like mist. The girls turned, watching in silence. Then Petulia reached down and caught some of the dust. When she lifted her hand, the fine stuff flowed between her fingers. It fell as slowly as feathers. 'Sometimes things go wrong,' she said, in a faraway voice. 'Mistress Blackcap told me. Haven't any of you been there when old folk are dying?' There were one or two nods, but everyone was watching the dust. 'Sometimes things go wrong,' said Petulia again. 'Sometimes they're dying but they can't leave because they don't know the Way. She said that's when they need you to be there, close to them, to help them find the door so they don't get lost in the dark.'

'Petulia, we're not supposed to talk about this,' said Harrieta, gently. 'No!' said Petulia, her face red. 'It is a time to talk about it, just here, just us! Because she said it's the last thing you can do for someone. She said there's a dark desert they have to cross, where the sand-'

'Hah! Mrs Earwig says that sort of thing is black magic,' said Annagramma, her voice as sharp and sudden as a knife. 'Does she?' said Petulia dreamily as the sand poured down. 'Well, Mistress Blackcap said that sometimes the moon is light and sometimes it's in shadow but you should always remember it's the same moon. And . . . Annagramma?'

'Yes?' Petulia took a deep breath. 'Don't you ever dare interrupt me again as long as you live. Don't you dare. Don't you darel I mean it.' Chapter 13 ri7G Witclj And then . . . there were the Trials themselves. That was the point of the day, wasn't it? But Tiffany, stepping out with the girls around her, sensed the buzz in the air. It said: Was there any point now? After what had happened? Still, people had put up the rope square again, and a lot of the older witches dragged their chairs to the edge of it, and it seemed that it was going to happen after all. Tiffany wandered up to the rope, found a space and sat down on the grass with Granny

Weatherwax's hat in front of her. She was aware of the other girls behind her, and also a buzz or susurration of whispering spreading out into the crowd. '. . . She really did do it, too . . . no, really .. . all the way to the desert... saw the dust... her boots were full, they say . . .' Gossip spreads faster among witches than a bad cold. Witches gossip like starlings. There were no judges, and no prizes. The Trials weren't like that, as Petulia had said. The point was to show what you could do, to show what you'd become, so that people would go away thinking things like That Caramella Bottlethwaite, she's coming along nicely.' It wasn't a competition, honestly. No one won. And if you believed that you'd believe that the moon is pushed around the sky by a goblin called Wilberforce. What was true was that one of the older witches generally opened the thing with some competent but not surprising trick which everyone had seen before but still appreciated. That broke the ice. This year it was old Goodie Trample and her collection of singing mice. But Tiffany wasn't paying attention. On the other side of the roped-off square, sitting on a chair and surrounded by older witches like a queen on her throne, was Granny Weatherwax. The whispering went on. Maybe opening her eyes had opened her ears, too, because Tiffany felt she could hear the whispers all around the square. '.. .Di'n't have no trainin', just did it... did you see that horse?.. .1 never saw no horse!.. .Di 'n 'tjust open the door, she stepped right in!... Yeah, but who was it fetched her back?Esme Weatherwax, that's who!... Yes, that's what I'm sayin', any little fool could've opened the door by luck, but it takes a real witch to bring her back, that's a winner, that is... fought the thing, left it there!... 7 didn 't see you doing anything, Violet Pulsimone! That child... Was there a horse or not? ... Was going to do my dancing broom trick, but that'd be wasted now, of course ... Why did Mistress Weatherwax give the girl her hat, eh? What's she want us to think? She never takes off her hat to no one!' You could feel the tension, crackling from pointy hat to pointy hat like summer lightning. The mice did their best with I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles but it was easy to see that their minds weren't on it. Mice are highly strung and very temperamental. Now people were leaning down beside Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany could see some animated conversations going on. 'You know, Tiffany,' said Lucy Warbeck, behind her, 'all you've got to do is, like, stand up and admit it. Everyone knows you did it. I mean, no one's ever, like, done something like that at the Trials!'

'And it's about time the old bully lost,' said Annagramma. But she's not a bully, Tiffany thought. She's tough, and she expects other witches to be tough> because the edge is no place for people who break. Everything with her is a kind of test. And her Third Thoughts handed over the thought that had not quite made it back in the tent: Granny Weatherwax, you knew the hiver would only come for me, didn't

you? You talked to Dr Bustle, you told me. Did you just turn me into your trick for today? How much did you guess? Or know? 'You'd win,' said Dimity Hubbub. 'Even some of the older ones would like to see her taken down a peg. They know big magic happened. There's not a whole shamble for miles.' So I'd win because some people don't like somebody else? Tiffany thought. Oh, yes, that'd really be something to be proud of... 'You can bet she'll stand up,' said Annagramma. 'You watch. She'll explain how the poor child got dragged into the Next World by a monster, and she brought her back. That's what I'd do, if I was her.' I expect you would, Tiffany thought. But you're not, and you're not me, either. She stared at Granny Weatherwax, who was waving away a couple of elderly witches. I wonder, she thought, if they've been saying things like 'This girl needs taking down a peg, Mistress Weatherwax.' And as she thought that, Granny turned back and caught her eye- The mice stopped singing, mostly in embarrassment. There was a pause, and then people started to clap, because it was the sort of thing you had to do. A witch, someone Tiffany didn't know, stepped out into the square, still clapping in that fluttery, hands-held-close-together-at shoulder-height way that people use when they want to encourage the audience to go on applauding just that little bit longer. 'Very well done, Doris, excellent work, as ever,' she trilled. 'They've come on marvellously since last year, thank you very much, wonderful, well done . . . ahem . . .' The woman hesitated, while behind her Doris Trample crawled around on hands and knees trying to urge her mice back into their box. One of them was having hysterics. 'And now, perhaps . . . some lady would like to, er . . . take the, er . . . stage?' said the mistress of ceremonies, as brightly as a glass ball about to shatter. 'Anyone?' There was stillness, and silence. 'Don't be shy, ladies!' The voice of the mistress of ceremonies was getting more strained by the second. It's no fun trying to organize a field full of born organizers. 'Modesty does not become us! Anyone?' Tiffany felt the pointy hats turning, some towards her, some towards Granny Weatherwax. Away across the few. yards of grass, Granny reached up and brushed someone's hand from her shoulder, sharply, without breaking eye contact with Tiffany. And we're not wearing hats, thought Tiffany. You gave me a virtual hat once, Granny Weatherwax, and I thank you for it. But I don't need it today. Today, I know I'm a witch. 'Oh, come now, ladies!' said the mistress of ceremonies, now almost frantic. 'This is the Trials! A place for friendly and instructive contestation in an atmosphere of fraternity and goodwill! Surely some lady ... or young lady, perhaps. . . ? Tiffany smiled. It should be 'sorority', not 'fraternity'. We're sisters, mistress, not brothers.

'Come on, Tiffany!' Dimity urged. 'They know you're good!' Tiffany shook her head. 'Oh, well, that's it,' said Annagramma, rolling her eyes. 'The old baggage has messed with the girl's head, as usual-'

'I don't know who's messed with whose head,' snapped Petulia, rolling up her sleeves. 'But I'm going to do the pig trick.' She got to her feet and there was a general stir in the crowd. 'Oh, I see it's going to be- Oh, it's you, Petulia,' said the mistress of ceremonies, slightly disappointed. 'Yes, Miss Casement, and I intend to perform the pig trick,' said Petulia loudly. 'But, er, you don't seem to have brought a pig with you,' said Miss Casement, taken aback. 'Yes, Miss Casement. I shall perform the pig trick . . . without a pig!' This caused a sensation, and cries of 'Impossible!' and 'There are children here, you know!' Miss Casement looked around for assistance and found none. 'Oh well,' she said, helpless. 'If you are sure, dear 'Yes. I am. I shall use . . . a sausage!' said Petulia, producing one from a pocket and holding it up. There was another sensation. Tiffany didn't see the trick. Nor did Granny Weatherwax. Their gaze was like an iron bar, and even Miss Casement instinctively didn't step into it. But Tiffany heard the squeal, and the gasp of amazement, and then the thunder of applause. People would have applauded anything at that point, in the same way that pent-up water would take any route out of a dam. And then witches got up. Miss Level juggled balls that stopped and reversed direction in mid-air. A middle-aged witch demonstrated a new way to stop people choking, which doesn't even sound magical until you understand that a way of turning nearly-dead people into fully-alive people is worth a dozen spells that just go twing! And other women and girls came up one at a time, with big tricks and handy tips and things that went wheee! or stopped toothache or, in one case, exploded - - and then there were no more entries. Miss Casement walked back into the centre of the field, almost drunk with relief that there had been a Trials, and made one final invitation to any ladies 'or, indeed, young ladies' who might like to come forward. There was a silence so thick you could have stuck pins in it. And then she said: 'Oh, well . . . in that case, I declare the Trials well and truly closed. Tea will be in the big tent!' Tiffany and Granny stood up at the same time, to the second, and bowed to one another. Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede towards the teas. It was interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a particularly good prophet. Petulia was surrounded by other young witches. The pig trick had gone down very well. Tiffany queued up to give her a hug.

'But you could have won!' said Petulia, red in the face with happiness and worry. 'That doesn't matter. It really doesn't,' said Tiffany. 'You gave it away,' said a sharp voice behind her. 'You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away. How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie?'

'Now you listen to me, Annagramma,' Petulia began, pointing a furious finger. Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl's arm. Then she turned and smiled so happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing. What she wanted to say was: 'Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there're silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize was? No, you wouldn't. Oh, there were judges, but they didn't count, not for the big prize. There is- There was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning and they moved so fast they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn't some silly cup or belt but to see her take her pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say “That'll do” because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you'd told him he had to challenge her, he'd cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he'd sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you'd take away from yourself. You don't understand that, do you? But it's the heart and soul and centre of it! The soul. . . and . . . centre!' But it would be wasted, so what she said was: 'Oh, just shut up, Annagramma. Let's see if there's any buns left, shall we?' Overhead, a buzzard screamed. She looked up. The bird turned on the wind and, racing through the air as it began the long glide, headed back towards home. They were always there. Beside her cauldron, Jeannie opened her eyes. 'He's comin' hame!' she said, scrambling to her feet. She waved a hand urgently at the watching Feegles. 'Don't ye just stand there gawping!' she commanded. 'Catch some rabbits to roast! Build up the fire! Boil up a load o' water, 'cos I'm takin' a bath! Look at this place, 'tis like a midden! Get it cleaned up! I want it sparkling for the Big Man! Go an' steal some Special Sheep Liniment! Cut some green boughs, holly or yew, mebbe! Shine up the golden plates! The place must sparkle! What're ye all standin' there for?'

'Er, what did ye want us to do first, Kelda,' said a Feegle nervously. 'All of it!' In her chamber they filled the kelda's soup-bowl bath and she scrubbed, using one of Tiffany's old toothbrushes, while outside there were the sounds of Feegles working hard at cross-purposes. The smell of roasting rabbit began to fill the mound.

Jeannie dressed herself in her best dress, did her hair, picked up her shawl and climbed out of the hole. She stood there watching the mountains until, after about an hour, a dot in the sky got bigger and bigger. As a kelda, she would welcome home a warrior. As a wife, she would kiss her husband and scold him for being so long away. As a woman, she thought she would melt with relief, thankfulness and joy. CHAPTER 14 QUEEN of the Bees And, one afternoon about a week later, Tiffany went to see Granny Weatherwax. It was only fifteen miles as the broomstick flies, and as Tiffany still didn't like flying a broomstick, Miss Level took her. It was the invisible part of Miss Level. Tiffany just lay flat on the stick, holding on with arms and legs and knees and ears if possible, and took along a paper bag to be sick into, because no one likes anonymous sick dropping out of the sky. She was also holding a large hessian sack, which she handled with care. She didn't open her eyes until the rushing noises had stopped and the sounds around her told her she was probably very close to the ground. In fact Miss Level had been very kind. When she fell off, because of the cramp in her legs, the broomstick was just above some quite thick moss. Thank you,' said Tiffany as she got up, because it always pays to mind your manners around invisible people. She had a new dress. It was green, like the last one. The complex world of favours and obligations and gifts that Miss Level lived and moved in had thrown up four yards of nice material (for the trouble-free birth of Miss Quickly's baby boy) and a few hours' dressmaking (Mrs Hunter's bad leg feeling a lot better, thank you). She'd given the black one away. When I'm old I shall wear midnight, she'd decided. But, for now, she'd had enough of darkness. She looked around at this clearing on the side of a hill, surrounded by oak and sycamore on three sides but open on the downhill side with a wide view of the countryside below. The sycamores were shedding their spinning seeds, which whirled down lazily across a patch of garden. It was unfenced, even though some goats were grazing nearby. If you wondered why it was the goats weren't eating the garden, it was because you'd forgotten who lived here. There was a well. And, of course, a cottage. Mrs Earwig would definitely have objected to the cottage. It was out of a storybook. The walls leaned against one another for support, the thatched roof was slipping off like a bad wig, and the chimneys were corkscrewed. If you thought a gingerbread cottage would be too fattening, this was the next worst thing. In a cottage deep in the forest lived the Wicked Old Witch . . . It was a cottage out of the nastier kind of fairy tale.