I Shall Wear Midnight

by Terry Pratchett

  Weddings can be rather similar to funerals in that, apart from the main players, when it’s all over, people are never quite sure what they should be doing next, which is why they see if there is any wine left. But Letitia was looking radiant, which is compulsory for brides, and the slightly frizzled bits of her hair had been neatly concealed by her brilliant, sparkly tiara. Roland had also scrubbed up quite well, and you had to be quite close to him to smell pig.

  ‘About last night …’ he began nervously. ‘Er, it did happen, didn’t it? I mean, I remember the pigsty, and we were all running, but …’ His voice faded away.

  Tiffany looked at Letitia, who mouthed the words, ‘I remember everything!’

  Yes, she really is a witch, Tiffany thought. That’s going to be interesting.

  Roland coughed. Tiffany smiled. ‘Dear Miss Aching,’ he said, and for once Tiffany forgave him his ‘public meeting’ voice, ‘I am well aware that I have been party to a miscarriage of natural justice vis-à-vis your good self.’ He stopped to clear his throat again and Tiffany thought, I really hope that Letitia can wash some of the starch out of him. ‘With this in mind, I spoke to young Preston here, who talked to the kitchen girls in his cheery way and found out where the nurse had gone. She had spent some of the money, but most of it is here and it is, I am happy to say, yours.’

  At this point somebody nudged Tiffany.

  It was Preston, who hissed, ‘We’ve found this too.’

  She looked down, and he pressed a worn leather folder into her hand. She nodded in grateful thanks and looked at Roland. ‘Your father wanted you to have this,’ she said. ‘It may be worth more to you than all that money. I would wait until you are alone before you look at it.’

  He turned it over in his hands. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just a memory,’ said Tiffany. ‘Just a memory.’

  The sergeant stepped forward then and tipped a heavy leather bag onto the table, among the glasses and flowers. There was a gasp from the guests.

  I’m being watched like hawks by my sister witches, thought Tiffany, and I am also being watched by practically everyone I know, and who know me. I’ve got to do this right. And I’ve got to do this so that everybody remembers it.

  ‘I think you should keep it, sir,’ she said. Roland looked relieved, but Tiffany went on, ‘However, I have a few simple requests on behalf of other people.’

  Letitia nudged her husband in the ribs and he spread out his hands. ‘This is my wedding day! How can I refuse any request?’

  ‘The girl Amber Petty needs a dowry which, incidentally, would allow her young man to buy his indenture to a master craftsman, and you might not be aware that he sewed the gown that is currently adorning your beautiful young wife. Have you ever seen anything finer?’

  This got an immediate round of applause, along with whistles from Roland’s chums, who whimsically called out things like, ‘Which one? The girl or the dress!’ When that was over, Tiffany said, ‘And furthermore, sir, and with your indulgence, I would like your pledge that any boy or girl from the Chalk with such a similar request will find you obliging. I think you will agree that I am asking for a lot less than I am returning to you?’

  ‘Tiffany, I believe you are correct,’ said Roland, ‘but I suspect you have more up your sleeve?’

  ‘How well you know me, sir,’ said Tiffany and Roland, just for a moment, went pink.

  ‘I want a school, sir. I want a school here on the Chalk. I‘ve been thinking about this for a long time – in fact for longer than I had worked out the name for what I wanted. There’s an old barn on Home Farm that isn’t being used right now and I think we could make it quite acceptable in a week or so.’

  ‘Well, the travelling teachers do come through every few months,’ said the Baron.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know, sir, and they’re useless, sir. They teach facts, not understanding. It’s like teaching people about forests by showing them a saw. I want a proper school, sir, to teach reading and writing, and most of all thinking, sir, so people can find what they’re good at, because someone doing what they really like is always an asset to any country, and too often people never find out until it’s too late.’ She deliberately looked away from the sergeant, but her words had caused a susurration around the room, Tiffany was glad to hear. She drowned it out with, ‘There have been times, lately, when I dearly wished that I could change the past. Well, I can’t, but I can change the present, so that when it becomes the past it will turn out to be a past worth having. And I’d like the boys to learn about girls and I’d like the girls to learn about boys. Learning is about finding out who you are, what you are, where you are and what you are standing on and what you are good at and what’s over the horizon and, well, everything. It’s about finding the place where you fit. I found the place where I fit, and I would like everybody else to find theirs. And may I please propose that Preston is the school’s first teacher? He pretty much knows everything there is to know as it is.’

  Preston bowed low with his helmet off, which got a laugh.

  Tiffany went on, ‘And his reward for a year’s teaching work for you will be, yes, enough money for him to buy the letters to go after his name so that he can become a doctor. Witches can’t do everything and we could do with a doctor in these parts.’ All this got a big cheer, which is what generally happens when people have worked out that they are likely to get something that they won’t have to pay for. When that had died down, Roland looked the sergeant in the eye and said, ‘Do you think you can manage without Preston’s military prowess, Sergeant?’

  This precipitated another laugh. That’s good, Tiffany thought; laughter helps things slide into the thinking.

  Sergeant Brian tried to look solemn, but he was concealing a smile. ‘It would be a bit of a blow, sir, but I think we might just about manage, sir. Yes, I think I can say that the departure of Lance Private Preston will enhance the overall efficiency of the squad, sir.’

  This caused more general applause from people who hadn’t worked it out and laughter from those that did.

  The Baron clapped his hands together. ‘Well then, Miss Aching, it would appear that you have got everything you asked for, yes?’

  ‘Actually, sir, I haven’t finished asking yet. There is one more thing and it won’t cost you anything, so don’t worry about that.’ Tiffany took a deep breath, and tried to make herself look taller. ‘I require that you give to the peoples known as the Nac Mac Feegle all the downland above Home Farm, that it should be theirs for ever in law as well as in justice. A proper deed can be drawn up, and don’t worry about the cost – I know a toad that will do it for a handful of beetles – and it will say that for their part the Feegles will allow all shepherds and sheep untrammelled access to the downs but there will be – and this is important – no sharp metal beyond a knife. All this will cost you nothing, my lord Baron, but what you and your descendants, and I hope you are intending to have descendants—’ Tiffany had to stop there because of the gale of laughter, in which Nanny Ogg took a large part, and then she continued, ‘My lord Baron, I think you will assure yourself of a friendship that will never die. Gain all, lose nothing.’

  To his credit, Roland hardly hesitated, and said, ‘I would be

  honoured to present the Nac Mac Feegle with the deeds to their land and I regret, no, I apologize for any misunderstandings between us. As you say, they deserve their land by right and by justice.’

  Tiffany was impressed by the short speech. The language was slightly stuffy, but his heart was in the right place, and slightly stuffy language suited the Feegles very well. To her joy there was yet another susurration in the beams high over the castle’s hall. And the Baron, looking a lot more like a real baron now, went on, ‘I only wish that I could tell them this personally right now.’

  And from the darkness above came one mighty cry of:

  The wind was silver and cold. Tiffany opened her eyes, with the cheer of the Feegles still ringing in her ears. It was replaced by the
rattle of dried grass in the wind. She tried to sit up but got nowhere, and a voice behind her said, ‘Please don’t wriggle, this is very difficult.’

  Tiffany tried to turn her head. ‘Eskarina?’

  ‘Yes. There is somebody here who wants to talk to you. You may get up now; I have balanced the nodes. Don’t ask questions, because you would not understand the answers. You are in the travelling now, again. Now and again, you might say. I will leave you to your friend … and I am afraid you cannot have much time, for a given value of time. But I must protect my son …’

  Tiffany said, ‘You mean you’ve got—’ She stopped because a figure was forming in front of Tiffany and became a witch, a classic witch with the black dress, black boots – rather nice ones, Tiffany noted – and, of course, the pointy hat. She had a necklace too. On the chain was a golden hare.

  The woman herself was old, but it was hard to say how old. She stood proudly, like Granny Weatherwax, but like Nanny Ogg she seemed to suggest that old age, or something, wasn’t really being taken seriously.

  But Tiffany concentrated on the necklace. People wore jewellery to show you something. It always had a meaning, if you concentrated.

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said, ‘I have just one question: I’m not here to bury you, am I?’

  ‘My word, you are quick,’ said the woman. ‘You have immediately devised a remarkably interesting narrative and instantly guessed who I am.’ She laughed. The voice was younger than her face. ‘No, Tiffany. Interestingly macabre though your suggestion is, the answer is no. I remember Granny Weatherwax telling me that when you get right down to it, the world is all about stories, and Tiffany Aching is extremely good at endings.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Oh yes. Classic endings to a romantic story are a wedding or a legacy, and you have been the engineer for one of each. Well done.’

  ‘You are me, right?’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s what the “you have to help yourself” business was about, yes?’

  The older Tiffany grinned, and Tiffany could not help noticing that it was a very nice grin. ‘As a matter of fact, I only interfered in a few small ways. Like, for example, making certain the wind really did blow very hard for you … although, as I recall, a certain colony of little men added their own special excitement to the venture. I’m never quite certain if my memory is good or bad. That’s time travel for you.’

  ‘You can travel in time?’

  ‘With some help from our friend Eskarina. And only as a shadow and a whisper. It’s a bit like the don’t-see-me thing that I … that we – You have to persuade time not to take any notice.’

  ‘But why did you want to talk to me?’ said Tiffany.

  ‘Well, the infuriating answer is that I remembered that I did,’ said old Tiffany. ‘Sorry, that’s time travel again. But I think I wanted to tell you that it all works out, more or less. It all falls into place. You’ve taken the first step.’

  ‘There’s a second step?’ said Tiffany.

  ‘No; there’s another first step. Every step is a first step if it’s a step in the right direction.’

  ‘But hold on,’ said Tiffany. ‘Won’t I be you one day? And then will I talk to me now, as it were?’

  ‘Yes, but the you that you talk to won’t exactly be you. I’m very sorry about this, but I am having to talk about time travel in a language that can’t really account for it. But in short, Tiffany, according to the elasticated string theory, throughout the rest of time, somewhere an old Tiffany will be talking to a young Tiffany, and the fascinating thing is that every time they do they will be a little bit different. When you meet your younger self, you will tell her what you think she needs to know.’

  ‘But I have got a question,’ said Tiffany. ‘And it’s one I want to know the answer to.’

  ‘Well, do be quick,’ said old Tiffany, ‘The elasticated string thingy, or whatever it is that Eskarina uses, does not allow us very much time.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘can you at least tell me. Do I ever get—?’

  Old Tiffany faded, smiling into nothingness, but Tiffany heard one word. It sounded like, ‘Listen.’

  And then she was in the hall again, as if she’d never left it at all, and people were cheering and there seemed to be Feegles everywhere. And Preston was by her side. It was as if ice had suddenly melted. But when she got her balance back, and stopped asking herself what had just happened, had really happened, Tiffany looked for the other witches, and saw that they were talking amongst themselves, like judges adding up a score.

  The huddle broke up, and they came towards her purposefully, led by Granny Weatherwax. When they reached her they bowed and raised their hats, which is a mark of respect in the craft.

  Granny Weatherwax looked at her sternly. ‘I see you have burned your hand, Tiffany.’

  Tiffany looked down. ‘I didn’t notice,’ she said. ‘Can I ask you now, Granny? Would you all have killed me?’ She saw the expressions of the other witches change.

  Granny Weatherwax looked around and paused for a moment.

  ‘Let us say, young woman, we would have done our best not to. But all in all, Tiffany, it seems to us that you’ve done a woman’s job today. The place where we looks for witches is at the centre of things. Well, we looks around here and we see that you is so central that this steading spins on you. You are your own mistress, nevertheless, and if you don’t start training somebody, that will be a waste. We leave this steading in the best of hands.’

  The witches clapped, and some of the other guests joined in, even though they did not understand what those few sentences had meant. What they did recognize, however, was that these were mostly elderly, experienced, important and scary witches. And they were paying their respect to Tiffany Aching, one of them, their witch. And she was a very important witch, and so the Chalk had to be a very important place. Of course, they had known that all along but it was nice to have it acknowledged. They stood a little straighter and felt proud.

  Mrs Proust removed her hat again, and said, ‘Please don’t be afraid to come back to the city again, Miss Aching. I think I can promise you a thirty per cent discount on all Boffo products, except for perishables or consumables, an offer not to be sneezed at.’

  The group of witches raised their hats in unison again and walked back into the crowd.

  ‘You know all that just now was organizing people’s lives for them,’ said Preston behind her, but as she spun round he backed away laughing and added, ‘But in a good way. You are the witch, Tiffany. You are the witch!’

  And people drank a toast and there was more food, and more dancing and laughter and friendship and tiredness, and at midnight Tiffany Aching lay alone on her broomstick high above the chalk hills and looked up at the universe, and then down on the bit of it that belonged to her. She was the witch, floating high over everything but, it must be said, with the leather strap carefully buckled.

  The stick rose and fell gently as warm breezes took it and as tiredness and darkness took her, she stretched out her arms to the dark and, just for a moment, as the world turned, Tiffany Aching wore midnight.

  She didn’t come down until the sun was crusting the horizon with light. And she woke up to birdsong. All across the Chalk the larks were rising as they did every morning in a symphony of liquid sound. They did indeed sing melodious. They streamed up past the stick, paying it no attention at all, and Tiffany listened, entranced, until the last bird had got lost in the brilliant sky.

  She landed, made breakfast for an old lady who was bed-bound, fed her cat, and went to see how Trivial Boxer’s30 broken leg was doing. She was stopped halfway there by the neighbour of old Miss Swivel, who had apparently become suddenly unable to walk overnight, but Tiffany was fortunately able to point out that she had regrettably put both feet through one knicker leg.

  Then she went down into the castle to see what else needed doing. After all, she was the witch.

  30 Mr and Mrs Boxer had been slightly more educated than wa
s good for them, and thought that ‘trivial’ was a good name for their third child.

  Epilogue

  MIDNIGHT BY DAY

  IT WAS THE scouring fair again, the same noisy hurdy-gurdy, the bobbing for frogs, the fortune-telling, the laughter, the pick-pockets (though never of a witch’s pocket), but this year, by common consent, no cheese rolling. Tiffany walked through it all, nodding at people she knew, which was everybody, and generally enjoying the sunshine. Had it been a year? So much had happened, it all swam together, like the sounds of the fair.

  ‘Good afternoon, miss.’

  And there was Amber, with her boy – with her husband …

  ‘Nearly didn’t recognize you, miss,’ said Amber cheerfully, ‘what with you not having your pointy hat on, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I thought I’d just be Tiffany Aching today,’ said Tiffany. ‘It is a holiday after all.’

  ‘But you are still the witch?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m still the witch, but I’m not necessarily the hat.’

  Amber’s husband laughed. ‘I know what you mean, miss! Sometimes I swear that people think I’m a pair of hands!’ Tiffany looked him up and down. They had met properly when she had married him to Amber, of course, and she had been impressed; he was what they called a steady lad and as sharp as his needles. He would go far, and take Amber with him. And after Amber finished her training under the kelda, who knows where she would take him?

  Amber hung on his arm as if it was an oak. ‘My William done a little present for you, miss,’ she said. ‘Go on, William, show her!’

  The young man proffered the package he had been carrying, and cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if you keep up with the fashions, miss, but they are doing wonderful fabrics now down in the big city, so when Amber suggested this to me I thought of them. But it also has to be washable, for a start, with perhaps a split skirt for the broomstick and leg-of-mutton sleeves, which are all the go this season, and with buttons tight at the wrists to keep them out of the way, and pockets on the inside and styled to be hardly noticeable. I hope it fits, miss. I’m good at measuring without a tape. It’s a knack.’