She was also trailing clouds of steam. Witches dry out from the inside.
‘It had all those teeth!’ said the mystery voice, this time from her hat.
‘I know!’ snapped Miss Tick.
‘And she just hauled off and hit it!’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Just like that!’
‘Yes. Very impressive,’ said Miss Tick. She was getting out of breath. Besides, they were already on the lower slopes of the downs now, and she wasn’t good on chalk. A wandering witch likes firm ground under her, not a rock so soft you could cut it with a knife.
‘Impressive?’ said the voice. ‘She used her brother as bait!’
‘Amazing, wasn’t it?’ said Miss Tick. ‘Such quick thinking… oh, no…’ She stopped running, and leaned against a field wall as a wave of dizziness hit her.
‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ said the voice from the hat. ‘I nearly fell off!’
‘It’s this wretched chalk! I can feel it already! I can do magic on honest soil, and rock is always fine, and I’m not too bad on clay, even… but chalk’s neither one thing nor the other! I’m very sensitive to geology, you know.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ said the voice.
‘Chalk… is a hungry soil. I don’t really have much power on chalk.’
The owner of the voice, who was hidden, said: ‘Are you going to fall over?’
‘No, no! It’s just the magic that doesn’t work…’
Miss Tick did not look like a witch. Most witches don’t, at least the ones who wander from place to place. Looking like a witch can be dangerous when you walk among the uneducated. And for that reason she didn’t wear any occult jewellery, or have a glowing magical knife or a silver goblet with a pattern of skulls all round it, or carry a broomstick with sparks coming out of it, all of which are tiny hints that there may be a witch around. Her pockets never carried anything more magical than a few twigs, maybe a piece of string, a coin or two and, of course, a lucky charm.
Everyone in the country carried lucky charms, and Miss Tick had worked out that if you didn’t have one people would suspect that you were a witch. You had to be a bit cunning to be a witch.
Miss Tick did have a pointy hat, but it was a stealth hat and only pointed when she wanted it to.
The only thing in her bag that might have made anyone suspicious was a very small, grubby booklet entitled ‘An Introduction to Escapology’, by The Great Williamson. If one of the risks of your job is being thrown into a pond with your hands tied together, then the ability to swim thirty yards under water, fully clothed, plus the ability to lurk under the weeds breathing air through a hollow reed counts as nothing if you aren’t also amazingly good with knots.
‘You can’t do magic here?’ said the voice in the hat.
‘No, I can’t,’ said Miss Tick.
She looked up at the sounds of jingling. A strange procession was coming up the white road. It was mostly made up of donkeys pulling small carts with brightly painted covers on them. People walked alongside the carts, dusty to the waist. They were mostly men, they wore bright robes—or robes, at least, that had been bright before being trailed through mud and dust for years—and every one of them wore a strange black square hat.
Miss Tick smiled.
They looked like tinkers, but there wasn’t one amongst them, she knew, who could mend a kettle. What they did was sell invisible things. And after they’d sold what they had, they still had it. They sold what everyone needed but often didn’t want. They sold the key to the universe to people who didn’t even know it was locked.
‘I can’t do,’ said Miss Tick, straightening up. ‘But I can teach!’
Tiffany worked for the rest of the morning in the dairy. There was cheese that needed doing.
There was bread and jam for lunch. Her mother said: ‘The teachers are coming to town today. You can go, if you’ve done your chores.’
Tiffany agreed that, yes, there were one or two things she’d quite like to know more about.
‘Then you can have half a dozen carrots and an egg. I dare say they could do with an egg, poor things,’ said her mother.
Tiffany took them with her after lunch, and went to get an egg’s worth of education.
Most boys in the village grew up to do the same jobs as their fathers or, at least, some other job somewhere in the village where someone’s father would teach them as they went along. The girls were expected to grow up to be somebody’s wife. They were also expected to be able to read and write, those being considered soft indoor jobs that were too fiddly for the boys.
However, everyone also felt that there were a few other things that even the boys ought to know, to stop them wasting time wondering about details like ‘What’s on the other side of the mountains?’ and ‘How come rain falls out of the sky?’
Every family in the village bought a copy of the Almanack every year, and a sort of education came from that. It was big and thick and printed somewhere far off, and it had lots of details about things like phases of the moon and the right time to plant beans. It also contained a few prophecies about the coming year, and mentioned faraway places with names like Klatch and Hersheba. Tiffany had seen a picture of Klatch in the Almanack. It showed a camel standing in a desert. She’d only found out what both those things were because her mother had told her. And that was Klatch, a camel in a desert. She’d wondered if there wasn’t a bit more to it, but it seemed that ‘Klatch = camel, desert’ was all anyone knew.
And that was the trouble. If you didn’t find some way of stopping it, people would go on asking questions.
The teachers were useful there. Bands of them wandered through the mountains, along with the tinkers, portable blacksmiths, miracle medicine men, cloth pedlars, fortune-tellers and all the other travellers who sold things people didn’t need every day but occasionally found useful.
They went from village to village delivering short lessons on many subjects. They kept apart from the other travellers, and were quite mysterious in their ragged robes and strange square hats. They used long words, like ‘corrugated iron’. They lived rough lives, surviving on what food they could earn from giving lessons to anyone who would listen. When no one would listen, they lived on baked hedgehog. They went to sleep under the stars, which the maths teachers would count, the astronomy teachers would measure and the literature teachers would name. The geography teachers got lost in the woods and fell into bear traps.
People were usually quite pleased to see them. They taught children enough to shut them up, which was the main thing after all. But they always had to be driven out of the villages by nightfall in case they stole chickens.
Today the brightly coloured little booths and tents were pitched in a field just outside the village. Behind them small square areas had been fenced off with high canvas walls and were patrolled by apprentice teachers looking for anyone trying to overhear Education without paying. The first tent Tiffany saw had a sign which said:
Jograffy!
Jograffy!
Jograffy!
For today only: all major land masses and oceans
PLUS everything you need to know about glassiers!
One penny or All Major Vejtables Acsepted!
Tiffany had read enough to know that, while he might be a whiz at major land masses, this particular teacher could have done with some help from the man running the stall next door:
The Wonders of Punctuation and Spelling
1 – Absolute Certainty about the Comma
2 – I before E Completely Sorted Out
3 – The Mystery of the Semi-Colon Revealed
4 – See the Ampersand (Small extra charge)
5 – Fun with Brackets
Will accept vegetables, eggs and clean used clothing
The next stall along was decorated with scenes out of history, generally of kings cutting one another’s heads off and similar interesting highlights. The teacher in front was dressed in ragged
red robes, with rabbitskin trimmings, and wore an old top hat with flags stuck in it. He had a small megaphone which he aimed at Tiffany.
‘The Death of Kings Through the Ages?’ he said. ‘Very educational, lots of blood!’
‘Not really,’ said Tiffany.
‘Oh, you’ve got to know where you’ve come from, miss,’ said the teacher. ‘Otherwise how will you know where you’re going?’
‘I come from a long line of Aching people,’ said Tiffany. ‘And I think I’m moving on.’
She found what she was looking for at a booth hung with pictures of animals including, she was pleased to see, a camel.
The sign said:
Useful Creatures. Today: Our Friend the Hedgehog.
She wondered how useful the thing in the river had been, but this looked like the only place to find out. A few children were waiting on the benches inside the booth for the lesson to begin, but the teacher was still standing out in front, in the hope of filling up the empty spaces.
‘Hello, little girl,’ he said, which was only his first big mistake. ‘I’m sure you want to know all about hedgehogs, eh?’
‘I did this one last summer,’ said Tiffany.
The man looked closer, and his grin faded. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I remember. You asked all those… little questions.’
‘I would like a question answered today,’ said Tiffany.
‘Provided it’s not the one about how you get baby hedgehogs,’ said the man.
‘No,’ said Tiffany, patiently. ‘It’s about zoology.’
‘Zoology, eh? That’s a big word, isn’t it.’
‘No, actually it isn’t,’ said Tiffany. ‘Patronizing is a big word. Zoology is really quite short.’
The teacher’s eyes narrowed further. Children like Tiffany were bad news. ‘I can see you’re a clever one,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know any teachers of zoology in these parts. Vetin’ry, yes, but not zoology. Any particular animal?’
‘Jenny Green-Teeth. A water-dwelling monster with big teeth and claws and eyes like soup plates,’ said Tiffany.
‘What size of soup plates? Do you mean big soup plates, a whole full portion bowl with maybe some biscuits, possibly even a bread roll, or do you mean the little cup you might get if, for example, you just ordered soup and a salad?’
The size of soup plates that are eight inches across,’ said Tiffany, who’d never ordered soup and a salad anywhere in her life. ‘I checked.’
‘Hmm, that is a puzzler,’ said the teacher. ‘Don’t think I know that one. It’s certainly not useful, I know that. It sounds made-up to me.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Tiffany. ‘But I’d still like to know more about it.’
‘Well, you could try her. She’s new.’
The teacher jerked his thumb towards a little tent at the end of the row. It was black and quite shabby. There weren’t any posters, and absolutely no exclamation marks.
‘What does she teach?’ she asked.
‘Couldn’t say,’ said the teacher. ‘She says it’s thinking, but I don’t know how you teach that. That’ll be one carrot, thank you.’
When she went closer Tiffany saw a small notice pinned to the outside of the tent. It said, in letters which whispered rather than shouted:
I CAN TEACH YOU A LESSON YOU WON’T FORGET IN A HURRY
Chapter 2
Miss Tick
Tiffany read the sign and smiled.
‘Aha,’ she said. There was nothing to knock on, so she added ‘Knock, knock’ in a louder voice.
A woman’s voice from within said: ‘Who’s there?’
‘Tiffany,’ said Tiffany.
‘Tiffany who?’ said the voice.
‘Tiffany who isn’t trying to make a joke.’
‘Ah. That sounds promising. Come in.’
She pushed aside the flap. It was dark inside the tent, as well as stuffy and hot. A skinny figure sat behind a small table. She had a very sharp, thin nose and was wearing a large black straw hat with paper flowers on it. It was completely unsuitable for a face like that.
‘Are you a witch?’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t mind if you are.’
‘What a strange question to spring on someone,’ said the woman, looking slightly shocked. ‘Your baron bans witches in this country, you know that, and the first thing you say to me is “Are you a witch?”
Why would I be a witch?’
‘Well, you’re wearing all black,’ said Tiffany.
‘Anyone can wear black,’ said the woman. ‘That doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘And you’re wearing a straw hat with flowers in it,’ Tiffany went on.
‘Aha!’ said the woman. ‘That proves it, then. Witches wear tall pointy hats. Everyone knows that, foolish child.’
‘Yes, but witches are also very clever,’ said Tiffany calmly. There was something about the twinkle in the woman’s eyes that told her to carry on. ‘They sneak about. Probably they often don’t look like witches. And a witch coming here would know about the Baron and so she’d wear the kind of hat that everyone knows witches don’t wear.’
The woman stared at her. ‘That was an incredible feat of reasoning,’ she said at last. ‘You’d make a good witch-finder. You know they used to set fire to witches? Whatever kind of hat I’ve got on, you’d say it proves I’m a witch, yes?’
‘Well, the frog sitting on your hat is a bit of a clue, too,’ said Tiffany.
‘I’m a toad, actually,’ said the creature, which had been peering at Tiffany from between the paper flowers.
‘You’re very yellow for a toad.’
‘I’ve been a bit ill,’ said the toad.
‘And you talk,’ said Tiffany.
‘You only have my word for it,’ said the toad, disappearing into the paper flowers. ‘You can’t prove anything.’
‘You don’t have matches on you, do you?’ said the woman to Tiffany.
‘No.’
‘Fine, fine. Just checking.’
Again, there was a pause while the woman gave Tiffany a long stare, as if making up her mind about something.
‘My name,’ she said at last, ‘is Miss Tick. And I am a witch. It’s a good name for a witch, of course.’
‘You mean blood-sucking parasite?’ said Tiffany, wrinkling her forehead.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Miss Tick, coldly.
‘Ticks,’ said Tiffany. ‘Sheep get them. But if you use turpentine—’
‘I meant that it sounds like “mystic”,’ said Miss Tick.
‘Oh, you mean a pune, or play on words,’ said Tiffany.3 ‘In that case it would be even better if you were Miss Teak, a hard foreign wood, because that would sound like “mystique”, or you could be Miss Take, which would—’
‘I can see we’re going to get along like a house on fire,’ said Miss Tick. ‘There may be no survivors.’
‘You really are a witch?’
‘Oh, pur-lease,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Yes, yes, I am a witch. I have a talking animal, a tendency to correct other people’s pronunciation—it’s pun, by the way, not “pune”—and a fascination for poking my nose into other people’s affairs and, yes, a pointy hat.’
‘Can I operate the spring now?’ said the toad.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Tick, her eyes still on Tiffany. ‘You can operate the spring.’
‘I like operating the spring,’ said the toad, crawling around to the back of the hat.
There was a click, and a slow thwap-thwap noise, and the centre of the hat rose slowly and jerkily up out of the paper flowers, which fell away.
‘Er…’ said Tiffany.
‘You have a question?’ said Miss Tick.
With a last thwop, the top of the hat made a perfect point.
‘How do you know I won’t run away right now and tell the Baron?’ said Tiffany.
‘Because you haven’t the slightest desire to do so,’ said Miss Tick. ‘You’re absolutely fascinated. You want to be a witch, am I right? You probably want to fly
on a broomstick, yes?’
‘Oh, yes!’ She’d often dreamed of flying. Miss Tick’s next words brought her down to earth.
‘Really? You like having to wear really, really thick pants? Believe me, if I’ve got to fly I wear two pairs of woollen ones and a canvas pair on the outside which, I may tell you, are not very feminine no matter how much lace you sew on. It can get cold up there. People forget that. And then there’s the bristles. Don’t ask me about the bristles. I will not talk about the bristles.’
‘But can’t you use a keeping-warm spell?’ said Tiffany.
‘I could. But a witch doesn’t do that sort of thing. Once you use magic to keep yourself warm, then you’ll start using it for other things.’
‘But isn’t that what a witch is supposed to—’ Tiffany began.
‘Once you learn about magic, I mean really learn about magic, learn everything you can learn about magic, then you’ve got the most important lesson still to learn,’ said Miss Tick.
‘What’s that?’
‘Not to use it. Witches don’t use magic unless they really have to. It’s hard work and difficult to control. We do other things. A witch pays attention to everything that’s going on. A witch uses her head. A witch is sure of herself. A witch always has a piece of string—’
‘I always do have a piece of string!’ said Tiffany. ‘It’s always handy!’
‘Good. Although there’s more to witchcraft than string. A witch delights in small details. A witch sees through things and round things. A witch sees further than most. A witch sees things from the other side. A witch knows where she is, and when she is. A witch would see Jenny Green-Teeth,’ she added. ‘What happened?’
‘How did you know I saw Jenny Green-Teeth?’
‘I’m a witch. Guess,’ said Miss Tick.
Tiffany looked around the tent. There wasn’t much to see, even now that her eyes were getting accustomed to the gloom. The sounds of the outside world filtered through the heavy material.
‘I think—’
The Wee Free Men d(-2 Page 2