Wintersmith (32 page)
Authors: Terry Pratchett
Tags: #Fantasy, #Action & Adventure, #General, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction, #Action & Adventure - General, #Science Fiction; Fantasy; Magic, #YA), #Fantasy & magical realism (Children's, #Children's Fiction
Granny walked to the front of the crowd. There was no need to push people out of the way. They just moved sideways, without noticing.
They’d arrived just in time. Children came running along the road to the bridge, only just ahead of the dancers who, as they trudged along, seemed like quite homely and ordinary men—men Tiffany’d seen often, working in forges or driving carts. They all wore white clothes, or at least clothes that had been white once, and like the audience they looked a bit sheepish, their expressions suggesting that this was all just a bit of fun, really, not to be taken seriously. They were even waving to people in the crowd. Tiffany looked around and saw Miss Tick, and Nanny, and even Mrs. Earwig…nearly every witch she knew. Oh, and there was Annagramma, minus Mr. Boffo’s little devices, and looking very proud.
It wasn’t like this last autumn, she thought. It was dark and quiet and solemn and hidden, everything that this isn’t. Who watched it from the shadows?
Who is watching now from the light? Who is
here
in secret?
A drummer and a man with an accordion pushed their way through the crowd, along with the local pub owner carrying eight pints of beer on a tray (because no grown man is going to dance in front of his friends with ribbons around his hat and bells on his trousers without the clear prospect of a large drink).
When the noise had died down a bit, the drummer beat the drum a few times and the accordionist played a long-drawn-out chord, the legal signal that a Morris dance is about to begin, and people who hang around after this have only got themselves to blame.
The two-man band struck up. The men, in two lines of three facing each other, counted the beat and then leaped…. Tiffany turned to Granny as twelve hobnailed boots
crashed
to the ground, throwing up sparks.
“Tell me how to take away pain,” she said, above the noise of the dance.
Crash!
“It’s hard,” said Granny, not taking her eyes off the dancers.
Crash
went the boots again.
“You can move it out of the body?”
Crash!
“Sometimes. Or hide it. Or make a cage for it and carry it away. And all of it’s dangerous, and it will kill you if you don’t respect it, young woman. It is all price and no profit. You are asking me to tell you how to put your hand in the lion’s mouth.”
Crash!
“I must know, to help the Baron. It’s bad. There is a lot I have to do.”
“This you choose to do?” said Granny, still watching.
“Yes!”
Crash!
“This is your Baron who doesn’t like witches?” said Granny, her gaze going from face to face in the crowd.
“But who
does
like witches until they need one, Mistress Weatherwax?” said Tiffany sweetly.
Crash!
“This is a reckoning, Mistress Weatherwax,” Tiffany added. After all, once you’ve kissed the Wintersmith, you’re in the mood to dare. And Granny Weatherwax smiled, as if she’d done all that was expected of her.
“Ha! Is it now?” she said. “Very well. Come and see me again before you go, and we’ll see what you may take back with you. And I hopes you can close the doors you are opening. Now watch the people! Sometimes you see her!”
Tiffany paid attention to the dance. The Fool had turned up without her noticing, wandering around collecting money in his greasy top hat. If a girl looked as though she’d squeal if he kissed her, he gave her a kiss. And sometimes, without any warning, he’d spring off into the dance, spinning through the men with never a foot in the wrong place.
Then Tiffany saw it. The eyes of a woman on the other side of the dance flashed gold, just for a moment. Once she’d seen it, she saw it again—in the eyes of a boy, a girl, the man holding the beer, moving around to watch the Fool—
“Summer’s here!” said Tiffany, and realized that she was tapping her foot to the beat; she realized it because a heavier boot had just trodden on it and pinned it gently but firmly to the ground. Beside it, You looked up at her in blue-eyed innocence that became, for the briefest fragment of a second, the lazy golden eyes of a snake.
“She’s meant to be,” said Granny Weatherwax, removing her boot.
“A few coppers for luck, miss?” said a voice close by, and there was the sound of money being shaken in an ancient hat.
Tiffany turned and looked into purple-gray eyes. The face around them was lined and tanned and grinning. He had a gold earring. “A copper or two from the lovely lady?” he wheedled. “Silver or gold, maybe?”
Sometimes, Tiffany thought, you just know how it all should go….
“Iron?” she said, taking the ring off her finger and dropping it into the hat.
The Fool picked it out, delicately, and flipped it into the air. Tiffany’s eye followed it, but somehow it wasn’t in the air anymore but
was
glistening on the man’s finger.
“Iron’s enough,” he said, and gave her a sudden kiss on the cheek.
It was only
slightly
chilly.
The galleries inside the Feegle mound were crowded but hushed. This was important. The honor of the clan was at stake here.
In the middle was a large book, taller than Rob and filled with colorful pictures. It was quite muddy from its journey down into the mound. Rob had been challenged. For years he’d thought himself to be a hero, and then the hag o’ hags had said he wasna, no’ really. Weel, you couldn’t argue wi’ the hag o’ hags, but he wuz goin’ to rise tae the challenge, oh aye, so he wuz, or his name wasna Rob Anybody.
“Where’s mah coo?” he read. “Is that mah coo? It gaes
cluck
! It is a…a…chicken! It is no’ mah coo! An’ then there’s this wee paintin’ o’ a couple o’ chickens. That’s another page, right?”
“It is indeed, Rob,” said Billy Bigchin.
There was a cheer from the assembled Feegles as Rob ran around the book, waving his hands in the air.
“An’ this one is a lot harder than Abker, right?” he said, when he’d done the circuit. “That one was easy! An’ a very predictable plot. Whoever writted that book didna stretch himself, in ma opinion.”
“You mean
The ABC
?” said Billy Bigchin.
“Aye.” Rob Anybody jumped up and down and punched the air a few times. “Got somethin’ a wee bit tougher?”
The gonnagle looked at the stack of battered books the Feegles had, in various ways, collected.
“Somethin’ I can get ma teeth intae,” Rob added. “A big book.”
“Well, this one’s called
Principles of Modern Accountancy
,” said Billy doubtfully.
“An’ is that a big heroic book to read?” said Rob, running on the spot.
“Aye. Probably, but—”
Rob Anybody held up a hand for silence and looked across at Jeannie, who had a crowd of little Feegles surrounding her. She was smiling at him, and his sons were staring at their father in silent astonishment. One day, Rob thought, they’ll be able to walk up to even the longest words and give them a good kicking. Not even commas and those tricksie semicolonses will stop them!
He had to be a hero.
“Ah’m feelin’ guid about this readin’,” said Rob Anybody. “Bring it on!”
And he read
Principles of Modern Accountancy
all morning, but just to make it interesting, he put lots of dragons in it.
T
he Morris dance…
…is traditionally danced on May 1, to welcome in the summer. Its history is a bit confused, possibly because it’s often danced near pubs, but it is now
the
English folk dance. The dancers usually wear white, and have bells sewn on their clothes. It is danced by both men and women, and is certainly now danced in the United States too.
I know this because I saw the Dark Morris danced in a bookshop in Chicago some years ago.
I’d invented the Dark Morris for another book called
Reaper Man
(at least I think I invented it), and a Morris team (officially known as a side) turned up in all black, just for me. They danced it in silence and perfect time, without the music and bells of the “summer” dance.
It was beautifully done. But it was also a bit creepy. So it might not be a good idea to try it at home….
T
ERRY
P
RATCHETT
is one of the world’s most popular writers. His first short story was published when he was 13, and his first book was published when he was 23. Mr. Pratchett’s novels have been translated into over two dozen languages, and have sold more than 45 million copies. He received Britain’s highest honor for a children’s book, the Carnegie Medal, for
THE AMAZING MAURICE AND HIS EDUCATED RODENTS
.
Mr. Pratchett has one grown daughter and lives in England with his wife and several cats.
www.terrypratchettbooks.com
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ROMELIAD
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RILOGY
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T
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J
OHNNY
M
AXWELL
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RILOGY
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illustrated by Gray Jolliffe
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ISCWORLD
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ERIES
The Color of Magic
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(
illustrated by Melvyn Grant
)
The Last Hero: A Discworld Fable
(
illustrated by Paul Kidby
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The Art of Discworld
(
illustrated by Paul Kidby
)
Jacket art © 2006 by Bill Mayer
Jacket design by Christopher Stengel
Wintersmith
Copyright © 2006 by Terry and Lyn Pratchett
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Mobipocket Reader September 2006 ISBN 0-06-128577-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pratchett, Terry.
Wintersmith / Terry Pratchett.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: When witch-in-training Tiffany Aching accidentally interrupts the Dance of the Seasons and awakens the interest of the elemental spirit of Winter, she requires the help of the six-inch-high, sword-wielding, sheep-stealing Wee Free Men to put the seasons aright.
ISBN-10: 0-06-089031-2 (trade)—ISBN-13: 978-0-06-089031-5 (trade)
ISBN-10: 0-06-089032-0 (lib. bdg.)—ISBN-13: 978-0-06-089032-2 (lib. bdg.)
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