Wintersmith (19 page)

He could come and go as he liked, whatever they did. They could bully his father, they could shout all they pleased, but they would never own
him
.

You could learn a lot from books.

The Wintersmith was learning. It was a hard, slow task when you had to make your brain out of ice. But he had learned about snowmen.
They were built by the smaller kinds of humans. That was interesting. Apart from the ones in pointy hats, the bigger humans didn’t seem to hear him. They knew invisible creatures didn’t speak to them out of the air.

The small ones, though, hadn’t found out what was impossible.

In the big city was a big snowman.

Actually, it would be more honest to call it a slushman.
Technically
it was snow, but by the time it had spiraled down through the big city’s fogs, smogs, and smokes, it was already a sort of yellowish gray, and then most of what ended up on the pavement was what had been thrown up from the gutter by cart wheels. It was, at best, a mostly snowman. But three grubby children were building it anyway, because building something that you could call a snowman was what you did. Even if it was yellow.

They’d done their best with what they could find and had given him two horse droppings for eyes and a dead rat for a nose.

At which point the snowman spoke to them, in their heads.

Small humans, why do you do that?

The boy who might have been the older boy looked at the girl who might have been the older girl. “I’ll tell you I heard that if you say you heard it too,” he said.

The girl was still young enough not to think “snowmen can’t talk” when one of them had just spoken to her, so she said to it: “You have to put them in to make you a snowman, mister.”

Does that make me human?

“No, ’cuz…” She hesitated.

“You ain’t got innards,” said the third and smallest child, who might have been the younger boy or the younger girl, but who was spherical with so many layers of clothing that it was quite impossible to tell. It did have a pink woolly hat with a bobble on it, but
that didn’t mean anything. Someone did care about it, though, because they’d embroidered “R” and “L” on its mittens, “F” and “B” on the front and back of its coat, “T” on top of the bobble hat, and probably “U” on the underside of its rubber boots. That meant that while you couldn’t know what it was, you could be certain it was the right way up and which way it was facing.

A cart went by, throwing up another wave of slush.

Innards?
said the secret voice of the snowman.
Made of special dust, yes! But what dust?

“Iron,” said the possibly older boy promptly. “Enough iron to make a nail.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, that’s how it goes,” said the possibly older girl. “We used to skip to it. Er…‘Iron enough to make a nail…Water enough to drown a cow—’”

“A dog,” said the possibly older boy. “It’s ‘Water enough to drown a dog, Sulfur enough to stop the fleas.’ It’s ‘Poison enough to kill a cow.’”

What is this?
the Wintersmith asked.

“It’s…like…an old song,” said the possibly older boy.

“More like a sort of poem. Everyone knows it,” said the possibly older girl.

“’S called ‘These Are the Things That Make a Man,’” said the child who was the right way up.

Tell me the rest of it,
the Wintersmith demanded, and on the freezing pavement they did, as much as they knew.

When they’d finished, the possibly older boy said hopefully, “Is there any chance you can take us flying?”

No,
said the Wintersmith.
I have things to find! Things that make a man!

One afternoon, when the sky was growing cold, there was a frantic knocking on Nanny’s door. It turned out to be caused by Annagramma, who almost fell into the room. She looked terrible, and her teeth were chattering.

Nanny and Tiffany stood her by the fire, but she started talking before her teeth had warmed up.

“Skkkkulls!” she managed.

Oh dear, thought Tiffany.

“What about them?” she said, as Nanny Ogg hurried in from the kitchen with a hot drink.

“Mmmmmiss Trrreason’s Skkkkulls!”

“Yes? What about them?”

Annagramma took a swig from the mug. “What did you do with them?” she gasped, cocoa dribbling down her chin.

“Buried them.”

“Oh, no! Why?”

“They were skulls. You can’t just leave skulls lying about!”

Annagramma looked around wildly. “Can you lend me a shovel, then?”

“Annagramma! You can’t dig up Miss Treason’s grave!”

“But I need some skulls!” Annagramma insisted. “The people there—well, it’s like the olden days! I whitewashed that place with my own hands! Have you any idea how long it takes to whitewash over black? They complained! They won’t have anything to do with crystal therapy, they just frown and say Miss Treason gave them sticky black medicine that tasted horrible but worked! And they keep on asking me to sort out stupid little problems, and I don’t have a clue what they’re about. And this morning there was this old man who’s dead and I’ve got to lay him out and sit up with him tonight. Well, I mean, that’s so…yuk….”

Tiffany glanced at Nanny Ogg, who was sitting in her chair and puffing gently on her pipe. Her eyes were gleaming. When she saw Tiffany’s expression, she winked and said: “I’ll leave you girls to have a little chat, shall I?”

“Yes, please, Nanny. And please don’t listen at the door.”

“To a private conversation? The very idea!” said Nanny, and went into the kitchen.

“Will she listen?” whispered Annagramma. “I’ll just die if Mistress Weatherwax finds out.”

Tiffany sighed. Did Annagramma know anything? “Of course she’ll listen,” she said. “She’s a witch.”

“But she said she wouldn’t!”

“She’ll listen, but she’ll pretend she hasn’t and she won’t tell anyone,” said Tiffany. “It’s her cottage, after all.”

Annagramma looked desperate. “And on Tuesday I’ve probably got to go and deliver a baby out in some valley somewhere! An old woman came and gabbled at me about it!”

“That’ll be Mrs. Owslick,” said Tiffany. “I
did
leave some notes, you know. Didn’t you read them?”

“I think perhaps Mrs. Earwig tidied them away,” Annagramma said.

“You should have looked at them! It took me an hour to write them all down!” said Tiffany reproachfully. “Three pieces of paper! Look, calm down, will you? Didn’t you learn anything about midwifery?”

“Mrs. Earwig said giving birth is a natural action and nature should be allowed to take its course,” said Annagramma, and Tiffany was sure she heard a snort from behind the kitchen door. “I know a soothing chant, though.”

“Well, I expect that will be a help,” said Tiffany weakly.

“Mrs. Earwig said the village women know what to do,” said Annagramma hopefully. “She says to trust in their peasant wisdom.”

“Well, Mrs. Obble was the old woman who called, and she has just got simple peasant ignorance,” said Tiffany. “She puts leaf mold on wounds if you don’t watch her. Look, just because a woman’s got no teeth doesn’t mean she’s wise. It might just mean she’s been stupid for a very long time. Don’t let her anywhere near Mrs. Owslick until after the baby. It’s not going to be an easy birth as it is.”

“Well, I know plenty of spells that will help—”

“No! No magic! Only to take away pain! Surely you know that?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Earwig says—”

“Why don’t you go and ask Mrs. Earwig to help you then?”

Annagramma stared at Tiffany. That sentence had come out a bit louder than intended. And then Annagramma’s face slid into what she probably thought was a friendly expression. It made her look slightly mad.

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea!” she said, as bright as a crystal that was about to shatter. “Why don’t you come back to the cottage and work for me?”

“No. I’ve got other work to do.”

“But you’re so good at the messy stuff, Tiffany,” said Annagramma in a syrupy voice. “It seems to come naturally to you.”

“I started at the lambing when I was small, that’s why. Small hands can get inside and untangle things.”

And now Annagramma had that hunted look she got when she was dealing with anything she didn’t immediately understand.

“Inside the sheep? You mean up its…”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Untangle things?”

“Sometimes the lambs try to get born backward,” said Tiffany.

“Backward,” muttered Annagramma weakly.

“And it can be worse if there’s twins.”

“Twins…” Then Annagramma said, as if spotting the flaw: “But look, I’ve seen lots of pictures of shepherds and sheep and there’s never anything like that. I thought it was all just…standing around and watching the sheep eat grass.”

There were times when you could feel that the world would be a better place if Annagramma got the occasional slap around the ear. The silly unthinking insults, her huge lack of interest in anyone other than herself, the way she treated everyone as if they were slightly deaf and a bit stupid…it could make your blood boil. But you put up with it because every once in a while you saw through it all. Inside there was this worried, frantic little face watching the world like a bunny watching a fox, and screaming at it in the hope that it would go away and not hurt her. And a meeting of witches, who were supposed to be clever, had handed her this steading that would be a hard job for anyone.

It didn’t make sense.

No, it didn’t make sense.

“It only happens when there’s a difficult lambing,” said Tiffany, while her mind raced. “And that means it’s out in the dark and the cold and the rain. Artists never seem to be around then. It’s amazing.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” said Annagramma. “Like I’m not here!”

Tiffany blinked. All right, she thought, how am I supposed to deal with this?

“Look, I’ll come and help you with the laying out,” she said, as
calmly as she could manage. “And I expect I can help with Mrs. Owslick. Or ask Petulia. She’s good. But you’ll have to do the watching by yourself.”

“Sitting up all night with a dead person?” said Annagramma, and shivered.

“You can take a book to read,” said Tiffany.

“I suppose I could draw a circle of protection around the chair…” Annagramma muttered.

“No,” said Tiffany. “No magic. Mrs. Earwig must have told you this?”

“But a circle of protection—”

“It draws attention. Something might turn up to see why it’s there. Don’t worry, it’s just to make the old people happy.”

“Er…when you say that something might turn up…” Annagramma began.

Tiffany sighed. “All right, I’ll sit up with you, just this once,” she said. Annagramma beamed.

“And as for skulls,” said Tiffany, “just wait a moment.” She went upstairs and got the Boffo catalogue, which she’d hidden in her old suitcase. She came back with it carefully rolled up and handed it over. “Don’t look at it now,” she said. “Wait until you’re alone. You might find it gives you ideas. Okay? I’ll come and meet you around seven tonight.”

When Annagramma had gone, Tiffany sat and counted under her breath. When she’d got to five, Nanny Ogg came and vigorously dusted a few ornaments before saying: “Oh, has your little friend gone?”

“Do you think I’m being silly?” said Tiffany.

Nanny stopped pretending to do housework. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, not havin’ listened,” she said, “but if I had
been listenin’, I’d think you won’t get any thanks, that’s what I’d think.”

“Granny shouldn’t have meddled,” said Tiffany.

“Shouldn’t have, eh?” said Nanny, her face blank.

“I’m not stupid, Nanny,” said Tiffany. “I’ve worked it out.”

“Worked it out, have you? There’s a clever girl,” said Nanny Ogg, sitting down in her chair. “And what is it you’ve worked out then?”

This was going to get difficult. Nanny was usually cheerful all the time. When she went solemn, like she was now, it could make you nervous. But Tiffany pressed on.

“I couldn’t take on a cottage,” she said. “Oh, I can do most of the everyday stuff, but you need to be older to run a steading. There’s things people won’t tell you if you’re thirteen, hat or not. But Granny put it about that she was suggesting me, and so everyone saw it as a contest between me and Annagramma, right? And they chose her because she’s older and sounds really competent. And now it’s all falling apart. It’s not her fault she was taught magic instead of witchcraft. Granny just wants her to fail so that everyone will know that Mrs. Earwig is a bad teacher. And I don’t think that’s good.”

“I wouldn’t be too quick to decide what it is Esme Weatherwax wants, if I was you,” said Nanny Ogg. “I won’t say a word, mind you. You go off and help your friend if you want, but you’ve still got to work for me, okay? That’s only fair. How’s the feet?”

“They feel fine, Nanny. Thank you for asking.”

More than a hundred miles away, Mr. Fusel Johnson knew nothing about Tiffany, Nanny Ogg, or indeed anything very much except for clocks and watches, which he made for a living. He also
knew how to lime-wash a kitchen, which was an easy and cheap way to get a nice white look even if the stuff was a bit runny. And therefore he had no idea why several handfuls of the white powder fountained up out of the mixing bowl before he could add the water, hung in the air for a moment like a ghost, and vanished up the chimney. In the end he put it down to too many trolls moving into the area. This wasn’t very logical, but such beliefs generally aren’t.

And the Wintersmith thought: Lime enough to make a man!

That night Tiffany sat up with Annagramma and old Mr. Tissot, except that he was lying down because he was dead. Tiffany had never liked watching over the dead. It wasn’t exactly something you could like. It was always a relief when the sky turned gray and the birds started to sing.

Sometimes, in the night, Mr. Tissot made little noises. Except, of course, it wasn’t Mr. Tissot, who’d met Death hours ago. It was just the body he’d left behind, and the sounds it made were really no different from the noises made by an old house as it cooled down.