A Hat Full Of Sky (11 page)

“We could make an omelette?” said Miss Level cheerfully.

“Oh, please, Miss Level!” Tiffany wailed.

Miss Level patted her on the back. “It’ll happen. Perhaps you’re trying too hard. One day it’ll come. The power does come, you know. You just have to put yourself in its path.”

“Couldn’t you make one that I could use for a while, to get the hang of it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Miss Level. “A shamble is a very tricky thing. You can’t even carry
one around, except as an ornament. You have to make it for yourself, there and then, right where and when you want to use it.”

“Why?” said Tiffany.

“To catch the moment,” said the other part of Miss Level, coming in. “The way you tie the knots, the way the string runs—”

“—the freshness of the egg, perhaps, and the moisture in the air—” said the first Miss Level.

“—the tension of the twigs and the kinds of things that you just happen to have in your pocket at that moment—”

“—even the way the wind is blowing,” the first Miss Level concluded. “All these things make a kind of…of picture of the here and now when you move them right. And I can’t tell you how to move them, because I don’t know.”

“But you
do
move them,” said Tiffany, getting lost. “I saw you—”

“I do it but I don’t know
how
I do,” said Miss Level, picking up a couple of twigs and taking a length of thread. Miss Level sat down at the table opposite Miss Level, and all four hands started to put a shamble together.

“This reminds me of when I was in the circus,” she said. “I was—”

“—walking out for a while with Marco and
Falco, the Flying Pastrami Brothers,” the other part of Miss Level went on. “They would do—”

“—triple somersaults fifty feet up with no safety net. What lads they were! As alike as two—”

“—peas, and Marco could catch Falco blindfolded. Why, for a moment I wondered if they were just like me—”

She stopped, went a bit red on both faces, and coughed.
“Anyway,”
she went on, “one day I asked them how they managed to stay on the high wire, and Falco said, ‘Never ask the tightrope walker how he keeps his balance. If he stops to think about it, he falls off.’ Although actually—”

“—he said it like this, ‘Nev-ah aska tightaropa walkera…’ because the lads pretended they were from Brindisi, you see, because that sounds foreign and impressive and they thought no one would want to watch acrobats called the Flying Sidney and Frank Cartwright. Good advice, though, wherever it came from.”

The hands worked. This was not a lone Miss Level, a bit flustered, but the full Miss Level, all twenty fingers working together.

“Of course,” she said, “it can be helpful to have the right sort of things in your pocket. I always carry a few sequins—”

“—for the happy memories they bring back,” said Miss Level from the other side of the table, blushing again.

She held up the shamble. There were sequins, and a fresh egg in a little bag made of thread, and a chicken bone and many other things hanging or spinning in the threads.

Each part of Miss Level put both its hands into the threads and pulled….

The threads took up a pattern. Did the sequins jump from one thread to another? It looked like it. Did the chicken bone pass
through
the egg? So it seemed.

Miss Level peered into it.

She said: “Something’s coming….”

The stagecoach left Twoshirts half full and was well out over the plains when one of the passengers sitting on the rooftop tapped the driver on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, did you know there’s something trying to catch up to us?” he said.

“Bless you, sir,” said the driver, because he hoped for a good tip at the end of the run, “there’s nothing that can catch up to
us
.”

Then he heard the screaming in the distance, getting louder.

“Er, I think he means to,” said the passenger as the carter’s wagon caught up to them.

“Stop! Stop, for pity’s sake,
stop
!” yelled the carter as he sailed past.

But there was no stopping Henry. He’d spent years pulling the carrier’s cart around the villages, very slowly, and he’d always had this idea in his big horse head that he was cut out for faster things. He’d plodded along, being overtaken by coaches and carts and three-legged dogs, and now he was having the time of his life.

Besides, the cart was a lot lighter than usual, and the road was slightly downhill here. All he was really having to do was gallop fast enough to stay in front. And finally he’d nearly overtaken the stagecoach. Him, Henry!

He only stopped because the stagecoach driver stopped first. Besides, the blood was pumping through Henry now, and there were a couple of mares in the team of horses pulling the coach who he felt he’d really like to get to know—find out when was their day off, what kind of hay they liked, that kind of thing.

The carter, white in the face, got down carefully and then lay on the ground and held on tight to the dirt.

His one passenger, who looked to the coach driver like some sort of scarecrow, climbed unsteadily down from the back and lurched toward the coach.

“I’m sorry, we’re full up,” the driver lied. They weren’t full, but there was certainly no room for a thing that looked like that.

“Ach, and there wuz me willin’ to pay wi’ gold,” said the creature. “Gold such as this here,” it added, waving a ragged glove in the air.

Suddenly there was plenty of space for an eccentric millionaire. Within a few seconds he was seated inside, and to the annoyance of Henry, the coach set off again.

Outside Miss Level’s cottage a broomstick was heading through the trees. A young witch—or at least, someone dressed as a witch; it never paid to jump to conclusions—was sitting on it sidesaddle.

She wasn’t flying it very well. It jerked sometimes, and it was clear the girl was no good at making it turn corners, because sometimes she stopped, jumped off, and pointed the stick in a new direction by hand. When she reached the garden gate, she got off again quickly and tethered the stick to it with string.

“Nicely done, Petulia!” said Miss Level, clapping
with all four hands. “You’re getting quite good!”

“Um, thank you, Miss Level,” said the girl, bowing. She stayed bowed, and said, “Um, oh dear…”

Half of Miss Level stepped forward.

“Oh, I can see the problem,” she said, peering down. “Your amulet with the little owls on it is tangled up with your necklace of silver bats, and they’ve both got caught around a button. Just hold still, will you?”

“Um, I’ve come to see if your new girl would like come to the sabbat tonight,” said the bent Petulia, her voice a bit muffled.

Tiffany couldn’t help noticing that Petulia had jewelry everywhere; later she found that it was hard to be around Petulia for any length of time without having to unhook a bangle from a necklace or, once, an earring from an ankle bracelet (nobody ever found out how that one happened). Petulia couldn’t resist occult jewelry. Most of the stuff was to magically protect her from things, but she hadn’t found anything to protect her from looking a bit silly.

She was short and plump and permanently red-faced and slightly worried.

“Sabbat? Oh, one of your meetings,” said Miss Level. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Tiffany?”

“Yes?” said Tiffany, not quite sure yet.

“Some of the girls meet up in the woods in the evenings,” said Miss Level. “For some reason the craft is getting popular again. That’s very welcome, of course.”

She said it as if she wasn’t quite sure. Then she added: “Petulia here works for Old Mother Blackcap, over in Sidling Without. Specializes in animals. Very good woman with pig diseases. I mean, with pigs that’ve got diseases, I don’t mean she
has
pig diseases. It’ll be nice for you to have friends here. Why don’t you go? There, everything’s unhooked.”

Petulia stood up and gave Tiffany a worried smile.

“Um, Petulia Gristle,” she said, holding out a hand.

“Tiffany Aching,” said Tiffany, shaking it gingerly in case the sound of all the bangles and bracelets jangling together deafened everyone.

“Um, you can ride with me on the broomstick, if you like,” said Petulia.

“I’d rather not,” said Tiffany. Petulia looked relieved but said: “Um, do you want to get dressed?”

Tiffany looked down at her green dress. “I am.”

“Um, don’t you have any gems or beads or amulets or anything?”

“No, sorry,” said Tiffany.

“Um, you must at least have a shamble, surely?”

“Um, can’t get the hang of them,” said Tiffany. She hadn’t meant the “um,” but around Petulia it was catching.

“Um…a black dress, perhaps?”

“I don’t really like black. I prefer blue or green,” said Tiffany. “Um…”

“Um. Oh well, you’re just starting,” said Petulia generously. “I’ve been crafty for three years.”

Tiffany looked desperately at the nearest half of Miss Level.

“In the craft,” said Miss Level helpfully. “Witchcraft.”

“Oh.” Tiffany knew she was being very unfriendly, and Petulia with her pink face was clearly a nice person, but she felt awkward in front of her and she couldn’t work out why. It was stupid, she knew. She could do with a friend. Miss Level was nice enough, and she managed to get along with Oswald, but it would be good to have someone around her own age to talk to.

“Well, I’d love to come,” she said. “I know I’ve got a lot to learn.”

The passengers inside the stagecoach had paid good money to be inside on the soft seats and out of the wind and the dust, and therefore it was odd that so many got out at the next stop and went and sat on the roof.

The few who didn’t want to ride up there or couldn’t manage the climb sat huddled together on the seat opposite, watching the new traveler like a group of rabbits watching a fox and trying not to breathe.

The problem wasn’t that he smelled of ferrets. Well, that
was
a problem, but compared to the
big
problem it wasn’t much of one. He talked to himself. That is, bits of him talked to other bits of him.
All the time.

“Ah, it’s fair boggin’ doon here. Ah’m tellin ye! Ah’m sure it’s my turn to be up inna heid!”

“Hah, at leas’ youse people are all cushy in the stomach—it’s us in the legs that has tae do all the work!”

At which the right hand said:
“Legs? Youse dinna know the meanin’ of the word ‘work’! Ye ought tae try being stuck in a glove! Ach, blow this for a game o’ sojers! Ah’m gonna stretch ma legs!”

In horrified silence the other passengers watched one of the man’s gloved hands drop off and walk around on the seat.

“Aye, weel, it’s nae picnic doon here inna troosers, neither. A’m gonna let some fresh air in right noo!”

“Daft Wullie, don’t you dare do that
—
”

The passengers, squeezing even closer together, watched the trousers with terrible fascination. There was some movement, some swearing under the breath in a place where nothing should be breathing, and then a couple of buttons popped and a very small red-headed blue man stuck his head out, blinking in the light.

He froze when he saw the people.

He stared.

They stared.

Then his face widened into a mad smile.

“Youse folks all right?” he said, desperately. “That’s greaaat! Dinna worry aboout me—I’m one o’ they opper-tickle aloosyon’s, ye ken?”

He disappeared back into the trousers, and they heard him whisper: “I’m thinkin’ I fooled ’em easily, no problemo!”

A few minutes later the coach stopped to change horses. When it set off again, it was minus the inside passengers. They got off, and asked for
their luggage to be taken off, too. No thank you, they did not want to continue their ride. They’d catch the coach tomorrow, thank you. No, there was no problem in waiting here in this delightful little, er, town of Dangerous Corner. Thank you. Good-bye.

The coach set off again, somewhat lighter and faster. It didn’t stop that night. It should have done so, and the rooftop passengers were still eating their dinner in the last inn when they heard it set off without them. The reason probably had something to do with the big heap of coins now in the driver’s pocket.

T
iffany walked through the woods while Petulia flew unsteadily alongside in a series of straight lines. Tiffany learned that Petulia
was
nice, had three brothers, wanted to be a midwife for humans as well as pigs when she grew up, and was afraid of pins. She also learned that Petulia hated to disagree about
anything
.

So parts of the conversation went like this:

Tiffany said, “I live down on the Chalk.”

And Petulia said, “Oh, where they keep all those sheep? I don’t like sheep much—they’re so kind of…baggy.”

Tiffany said, “Actually, we’re very proud of our sheep.”

And then you could stand back as Petulia reversed her opinions like someone trying to turn a cart around in a very narrow space: “Oh, I didn’t really mean I
hate
them. I expect some sheep are all right. We’ve got to
have
sheep, obviously. They’re better than goats, and woolier. I mean I actually like sheep, really. Sheep are nice.”

Petulia spent a lot of time trying to find out what other people thought so that she could think the same way. It would be impossible to have an argument with her. Tiffany had to stop herself from saying “the sky is green” just to see how long it would take for Petulia to agree. But she liked her. You couldn’t
not
like her. She was restful company. Besides, you couldn’t help liking someone who couldn’t make a broomstick turn corners.

It was a long walk through the woods. Tiffany had always wanted to see a forest so big that you couldn’t see daylight through the other side, but now that she’d lived in one for a couple of weeks, it got on her nerves. It was quite open woodland here, at least around the villages, and not hard to walk through. She’d had to learn what maples and birches were, and she’d never before seen the spruces and firs that grew higher up the slopes. But she wasn’t happy in the company of trees. She missed the horizons. She missed the sky. Everything was too close.

Petulia chattered nervously. Old Mother Blackcap was a pig borer, cow shouter, and all-around veterinary witch. Petulia liked animals,
especially pigs, because they had wobbly noses. Tiffany quite liked animals too, but no one except other animals liked animals as much as Petulia.

“So…what’s this meeting about?” she said, to change the subject.

“Um? Oh, it’s just to keep in touch,” said Petulia. “Annagramma says it’s important to make contacts.”

“Annagramma’s the leader, then, is she?” said Tiffany.

“Um, no. Witches don’t have leaders, Annagramma says.”

“Hmm,” said Tiffany.

They arrived at last at a clearing in the woods, just as the sun was setting. There were the remains of an old cottage there, now covered mostly in brambles. You might miss it completely if you didn’t spot the rampant growth of lilac and the gooseberry bushes, now a forest of thorns. Someone had lived here once, and had had a garden.

Someone else, now, had lit a fire. Badly. And they had found that lying down flat to blow on a fire because you hadn’t started it with enough paper and dry twigs was not a good idea, because it would then cause your pointy hat, which you
had forgotten to take off, to fall into the smoking mess and then, because it was dry, catch fire.

A young witch was now flailing desperately at her burning hat, watched by several interested spectators.

Another one, sitting on a log, said: “Dimity Hubbub, that is
literally
the most stupid thing anyone has ever done anywhere in the whole world, ever.” It was a sharp, not very nice voice, the sort most people used for being sarcastic with.

“Sorry, Annagramma!” said Miss Hubbub, pulling off the hat and stamping on the point.

“I mean, just look at you, will you? You really are letting everyone down.”

“Sorry, Annagramma!”

“Um,” said Petulia.

Everyone turned to look at the new arrivals.

“You’re
late
, Petulia Gristle!” snapped Annagramma "And who’s this?”

“Um, you
did
ask me to stop in at Miss Level’s to bring the new girl, Annagramma,” said Petulia, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

Annagramma stood up. She was at least a head taller than Tiffany and had a face that seemed to be built backward from her nose, which she
held slightly in the air. To be looked at by Annagramma was to know that you’d already taken up too much of her valuable time.

“Is this her?”

“Um, yes, Annagramma.”

“Let’s have a look at you, new girl.”

Tiffany stepped forward. It was amazing. She hadn’t really meant to. But Annagramma had the kind of voice that you obeyed.

“What is your name?”

“Tiffany Aching?” said Tiffany, and found herself saying her name as if she was asking permission to have it.

“Tiffany? That’s a funny name,” said the tall girl. “
My
name is Annagramma Hawkin.”

“Um, Annagramma works for—” Petulia began.

“—works
with
,” said Annagramma sharply, still looking Tiffany up and down.

“Um, sorry, works
with
Mrs. Earwig,” said Petulia. “But she—”

“I intend to leave next year,” said Annagramma. “Apparently, I’m doing
extremely
well. So you’re the girl who’s joined Miss Level, are you? She’s weird, you know. The last three girls all left very quickly. They said it was just too strange trying to keep track of which one of her was which.”

“Which witch was which,” said one of the girls cheerfully.

“Anyone can do that pun, Lucy Warbeck,” said Annagramma, without looking around. “It’s not funny, and it’s not clever.”

She turned her attention back to Tiffany, who felt that she was being examined as critically and thoroughly as Granny Aching would check a ewe she might be thinking of buying. She wondered if Annagramma would actually try to open her mouth and make sure she had all her teeth.

“They say you can’t breed good witches on chalk,” said Annagramma.

All the other girls looked from Annagramma to Tiffany, who thought: Hah, so witches don’t have leaders, do they? But she was in no mood to make enemies.

“Perhaps they do,” she said quietly. This did not seem to be what Annagramma wanted to hear.

“You haven’t even dressed the part,” said Annagramma.

“Sorry,” said Tiffany.

“Um, Annagramma says that if you want people to treat you like a witch, you should look like one,” Petulia said.

“Hmm,” said Annagramma, staring at Tiffany
as if she’d failed a simple test. Then she nodded her head. “Well, we all had to start somewhere.” She stood back. “Ladies, this is Tiffany. Tiffany, you know Petulia. She crashes into trees. Dimity Hubbub is the one with the smoke coming out of her hat, so that she looks like a chimney. That’s Gertruder Tiring, that’s the hilariously funny Lucy Warbeck, that’s Harrieta Bilk, who can’t seem to do anything about the squint, and then that’s Lulu Darling, who can’t seem to do anything about the name. You can sit in for this evening…Tiffany, wasn’t it? I’m sorry you’ve been taken on by Miss Level. She’s rather sad. Complete amateur. Hasn’t really got a clue. Just bustles about and hopes. Oh, well, it’s too late now. Gertruder, Summon the World’s Four Corners and Open the Circle, please.”

“Er…” said Gertruder nervously. It was amazing how many people around Annagramma became nervous.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” said Annagramma. “
Try
to remember, please! We must have been through this
literally
a million times!”

“I’ve never heard of the World’s Four Corners,” said Tiffany.

“Really? There’s a surprise,” said Annagramma.
“Well, they’re the directions of power, Tiffany, and I
would
advise you to do something about that name, too, please.”

“But the world’s round, like a plate,” said Tiffany.

“Um, you have to imagine them,” Petulia whispered.

Tiffany wrinkled her forehead.

“Why?” she said.

Annagramma rolled her eyes. “Because that’s the way to do things
properly
.”

“Oh.”

“You
have
done
some
kind of magic, haven’t you?” Annagramma demanded.

Tiffany was a bit confused. She wasn’t used to people like Annagramma.

“Yes,” she said. All the other girls were staring at her, and Tiffany couldn’t help thinking about sheep. When a dog attacks a sheep, the other sheep run away to a safe distance and then turn and watch. They don’t gang up on the dog. They’re just happy it’s not them.

“What are you best at, then?” snapped Annagramma.

Tiffany, her mind still full of sheep, spoke without thinking. “Soft Nellies,” she said. “It’s a sheep cheese. It’s quite hard to make….”

She looked around at the circle of blank faces and felt embarrassment rise inside her like hot jelly.

“Um, Annagramma meant what magic can you do best,” said Petulia kindly.

“Although Soft Nellies is good,” said Annagramma with a cruel little smile. One or two of the girls gave that little snort that meant they were trying not to laugh out loud but didn’t mind showing that they were trying.

Tiffany looked down at her boots again.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, “but I did throw the Queen of the Fairies out of my country.”

“Really?” said Annagramma. “The Queen of the Fairies, eh? How did you do that?”

“I’m…not sure. I just got angry with her.” And it was hard to remember exactly what had happened that night. Tiffany recalled the anger, the terrible anger, and the world…changing. She’d seen it clearer than a hawk sees, heard it better than a dog hears, felt its age beneath her feet, felt the hills still living. And she remembered thinking that no one could do this for long and still be human.

“Well, you’ve got the right boots for stamping your foot,” said Annagramma. There were a few more half-concealed giggles. “A Queen of the
Fairies,” she added. “I’m
sure
you did. Well, it helps to dream.”

“I don’t tell lies,” mumbled Tiffany, but no one was listening.

Sullen and upset, she watched the girls Open the Corners and Summon the Circle, unless she’d got that the wrong way around. This went on for some time. It would have gone better if they’d all been sure what to do, but it was probably hard to
know
what to do when Annagramma was around, since she kept correcting everyone. She was standing with a big book open in her arms.

“…now you, Gertruder, go widdershins,
no, that’s the other way, I must have told you literally a thousand times
, and Lulu—where’s Lulu? Well, you shouldn’t have been there! Get the shriven chalice, not that one, no, the one without handles…yes. Harrieta, hold the Wand of the Air a bit higher, I mean, it must
be
in the air, d’you understand? And for goodness’ sake, Petulia,
please
try to look a little more stately, will you? I appreciate that it doesn’t come naturally to you, but you might at least show you’re making an effort. By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, no invocation ever written starts with ‘um,’ unless I’m very much mistaken. Harrieta, is that
the Cauldron of the Sea? Does it even
look
like a Cauldron of the Sea? I don’t think so, do you?
What was that noise?
”

The girls looked down. Then someone mumbled: “Dimity trod on the Circlet of Infinity, Annagramma.”

“Not the one with the genuine seed pearls on it?” said Annagramma in a tight little voice.

“Um, yes,” said Petulia. “But I’m sure she’s very sorry. Um…shall I make a cup of tea?”

The book slammed shut.

“What is the point?” said Annagramma to the world in general. “What. Is. The.
Point?
Do you want to spend the rest of your lives as village witches, curing boils and warts for a cup of tea and a biscuit? Well? Do you?”

There was a shuffling among the huddled witches, and a general murmur of “No, Annagramma.”

“You did all
read
Mrs. Earwig’s book, didn’t you?” she demanded. “Well, did you?”

Petulia raised a hand nervously. “Um—” she began.

“Petulia, I’ve told you literally a million times not to start. Every. Single. Sentence. With ‘Um’—haven’t I?”

“Um—” said Petulia, trembling with nervousness.

“Just speak up, for goodness’ sake! Don’t hesitate all the time!”

“Um—”

“Petulia!”

“Um—”

“Really, you might make an
effort
. Honestly, I don’t know what’s the matter with all of you!”

I do, Tiffany thought. You’re like a dog worrying sheep all the time. You don’t give them time to obey you, and you don’t let them know when they’ve done things right. You just keep barking.

Petulia had lapsed into tongue-tied silence.

Annagramma put the book down on the log. “Well, we’ve
completely
lost the moment,” she said. “We may as well have that cup of tea, Petulia. Do hurry up.”

Petulia, relieved, grabbed the kettle. People relaxed a little.

Tiffany looked at the cover of the book. It read:

The Higher MagiK
by Letice Earwig, Witch

“Magic with a K?” she said aloud. “Magik
kkk
?”

“That’s deliberate,” said Annagramma coldly. “Mrs. Earwig says that if we are to make any progress at all we
must
distinguish the higher MagiK from the everyday sort.”

“The
everyday
sort of magic?” said Tiffany.

“Exactly. None of that mumbling in hedgerows for
us
. Proper sacred circles, spells written down. A proper hierarchy, not everyone running around doing whatever they feel like. Real wands, not bits of grubby stick. Professionalism, with respect. Absolutely no warts. That’s the only way forward.”