'And it's about time the old bully lost,' said Annagramma. But she's not a bully, Tiffany thought. She's tough, and she expects other witches to be tough> because the edge is no place for people who break. Everything with her is a kind of test. And her Third Thoughts handed over the thought that had not quite made it back in the tent: Granny Weatherwax, you knew the hiver would only come for me, didn't
you? You talked to Dr Bustle, you told me. Did you just turn me into your trick for today? How much did you guess? Or know? 'You'd win,' said Dimity Hubbub. 'Even some of the older ones would like to see her taken down a peg. They know big magic happened. There's not a whole shamble for miles.' So I'd win because some people don't like somebody else? Tiffany thought. Oh, yes, that'd really be something to be proud of... 'You can bet she'll stand up,' said Annagramma. 'You watch. She'll explain how the poor child got dragged into the Next World by a monster, and she brought her back. That's what I'd do, if I was her.' I expect you would, Tiffany thought. But you're not, and you're not me, either. She stared at Granny Weatherwax, who was waving away a couple of elderly witches. I wonder, she thought, if they've been saying things like 'This girl needs taking down a peg, Mistress Weatherwax.' And as she thought that, Granny turned back and caught her eye- The mice stopped singing, mostly in embarrassment. There was a pause, and then people started to clap, because it was the sort of thing you had to do. A witch, someone Tiffany didn't know, stepped out into the square, still clapping in that fluttery, hands-held-close-together-at shoulder-height way that people use when they want to encourage the audience to go on applauding just that little bit longer. 'Very well done, Doris, excellent work, as ever,' she trilled. 'They've come on marvellously since last year, thank you very much, wonderful, well done . . . ahem . . .' The woman hesitated, while behind her Doris Trample crawled around on hands and knees trying to urge her mice back into their box. One of them was having hysterics. 'And now, perhaps . . . some lady would like to, er . . . take the, er . . . stage?' said the mistress of ceremonies, as brightly as a glass ball about to shatter. 'Anyone?' There was stillness, and silence. 'Don't be shy, ladies!' The voice of the mistress of ceremonies was getting more strained by the second. It's no fun trying to organize a field full of born organizers. 'Modesty does not become us! Anyone?' Tiffany felt the pointy hats turning, some towards her, some towards Granny Weatherwax. Away across the few. yards of grass, Granny reached up and brushed someone's hand from her shoulder, sharply, without breaking eye contact with Tiffany. And we're not wearing hats, thought Tiffany. You gave me a virtual hat once, Granny Weatherwax, and I thank you for it. But I don't need it today. Today, I know I'm a witch. 'Oh, come now, ladies!' said the mistress of ceremonies, now almost frantic. 'This is the Trials! A place for friendly and instructive contestation in an atmosphere of fraternity and goodwill! Surely some lady ... or young lady, perhaps. . . ? Tiffany smiled. It should be 'sorority', not 'fraternity'. We're sisters, mistress, not brothers.
'Come on, Tiffany!' Dimity urged. 'They know you're good!' Tiffany shook her head. 'Oh, well, that's it,' said Annagramma, rolling her eyes. 'The old baggage has messed with the girl's head, as usual-'
'I don't know who's messed with whose head,' snapped Petulia, rolling up her sleeves. 'But I'm going to do the pig trick.' She got to her feet and there was a general stir in the crowd. 'Oh, I see it's going to be- Oh, it's you, Petulia,' said the mistress of ceremonies, slightly disappointed. 'Yes, Miss Casement, and I intend to perform the pig trick,' said Petulia loudly. 'But, er, you don't seem to have brought a pig with you,' said Miss Casement, taken aback. 'Yes, Miss Casement. I shall perform the pig trick . . . without a pig!' This caused a sensation, and cries of 'Impossible!' and 'There are children here, you know!' Miss Casement looked around for assistance and found none. 'Oh well,' she said, helpless. 'If you are sure, dear 'Yes. I am. I shall use . . . a sausage!' said Petulia, producing one from a pocket and holding it up. There was another sensation. Tiffany didn't see the trick. Nor did Granny Weatherwax. Their gaze was like an iron bar, and even Miss Casement instinctively didn't step into it. But Tiffany heard the squeal, and the gasp of amazement, and then the thunder of applause. People would have applauded anything at that point, in the same way that pent-up water would take any route out of a dam. And then witches got up. Miss Level juggled balls that stopped and reversed direction in mid-air. A middle-aged witch demonstrated a new way to stop people choking, which doesn't even sound magical until you understand that a way of turning nearly-dead people into fully-alive people is worth a dozen spells that just go twing! And other women and girls came up one at a time, with big tricks and handy tips and things that went wheee! or stopped toothache or, in one case, exploded - - and then there were no more entries. Miss Casement walked back into the centre of the field, almost drunk with relief that there had been a Trials, and made one final invitation to any ladies 'or, indeed, young ladies' who might like to come forward. There was a silence so thick you could have stuck pins in it. And then she said: 'Oh, well . . . in that case, I declare the Trials well and truly closed. Tea will be in the big tent!' Tiffany and Granny stood up at the same time, to the second, and bowed to one another. Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede towards the teas. It was interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a particularly good prophet. Petulia was surrounded by other young witches. The pig trick had gone down very well. Tiffany queued up to give her a hug.
'But you could have won!' said Petulia, red in the face with happiness and worry. 'That doesn't matter. It really doesn't,' said Tiffany. 'You gave it away,' said a sharp voice behind her. 'You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away. How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie?'
'Now you listen to me, Annagramma,' Petulia began, pointing a furious finger. Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl's arm. Then she turned and smiled so happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing. What she wanted to say was: 'Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there're silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize was? No, you wouldn't. Oh, there were judges, but they didn't count, not for the big prize. There is- There was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning and they moved so fast they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn't some silly cup or belt but to see her take her pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say “That'll do” because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you'd told him he had to challenge her, he'd cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he'd sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you'd take away from yourself. You don't understand that, do you? But it's the heart and soul and centre of it! The soul. . . and . . . centre!' But it would be wasted, so what she said was: 'Oh, just shut up, Annagramma. Let's see if there's any buns left, shall we?' Overhead, a buzzard screamed. She looked up. The bird turned on the wind and, racing through the air as it began the long glide, headed back towards home. They were always there. Beside her cauldron, Jeannie opened her eyes. 'He's comin' hame!' she said, scrambling to her feet. She waved a hand urgently at the watching Feegles. 'Don't ye just stand there gawping!' she commanded. 'Catch some rabbits to roast! Build up the fire! Boil up a load o' water, 'cos I'm takin' a bath! Look at this place, 'tis like a midden! Get it cleaned up! I want it sparkling for the Big Man! Go an' steal some Special Sheep Liniment! Cut some green boughs, holly or yew, mebbe! Shine up the golden plates! The place must sparkle! What're ye all standin' there for?'
'Er, what did ye want us to do first, Kelda,' said a Feegle nervously. 'All of it!' In her chamber they filled the kelda's soup-bowl bath and she scrubbed, using one of Tiffany's old toothbrushes, while outside there were the sounds of Feegles working hard at cross-purposes. The smell of roasting rabbit began to fill the mound.
Jeannie dressed herself in her best dress, did her hair, picked up her shawl and climbed out of the hole. She stood there watching the mountains until, after about an hour, a dot in the sky got bigger and bigger. As a kelda, she would welcome home a warrior. As a wife, she would kiss her husband and scold him for being so long away. As a woman, she thought she would melt with relief, thankfulness and joy. CHAPTER 14 QUEEN of the Bees And, one afternoon about a week later, Tiffany went to see Granny Weatherwax. It was only fifteen miles as the broomstick flies, and as Tiffany still didn't like flying a broomstick, Miss Level took her. It was the invisible part of Miss Level. Tiffany just lay flat on the stick, holding on with arms and legs and knees and ears if possible, and took along a paper bag to be sick into, because no one likes anonymous sick dropping out of the sky. She was also holding a large hessian sack, which she handled with care. She didn't open her eyes until the rushing noises had stopped and the sounds around her told her she was probably very close to the ground. In fact Miss Level had been very kind. When she fell off, because of the cramp in her legs, the broomstick was just above some quite thick moss. Thank you,' said Tiffany as she got up, because it always pays to mind your manners around invisible people. She had a new dress. It was green, like the last one. The complex world of favours and obligations and gifts that Miss Level lived and moved in had thrown up four yards of nice material (for the trouble-free birth of Miss Quickly's baby boy) and a few hours' dressmaking (Mrs Hunter's bad leg feeling a lot better, thank you). She'd given the black one away. When I'm old I shall wear midnight, she'd decided. But, for now, she'd had enough of darkness. She looked around at this clearing on the side of a hill, surrounded by oak and sycamore on three sides but open on the downhill side with a wide view of the countryside below. The sycamores were shedding their spinning seeds, which whirled down lazily across a patch of garden. It was unfenced, even though some goats were grazing nearby. If you wondered why it was the goats weren't eating the garden, it was because you'd forgotten who lived here. There was a well. And, of course, a cottage. Mrs Earwig would definitely have objected to the cottage. It was out of a storybook. The walls leaned against one another for support, the thatched roof was slipping off like a bad wig, and the chimneys were corkscrewed. If you thought a gingerbread cottage would be too fattening, this was the next worst thing. In a cottage deep in the forest lived the Wicked Old Witch . . . It was a cottage out of the nastier kind of fairy tale.
Granny Weatherwax's beehives were tucked away down one side of the cottage. Some were the old straw kind, most were patched-up wooden ones. They thundered with activity, even this late in the year. Tiffany turned aside to look at them, and the bees poured out in a dark stream. They swarmed towards Tiffany, formed a column and- She laughed. They'd made a witch of bees in front of her, thousands of them all holding station in the air. She raised her right hand. With a rise in the level of buzzing, the bee-witch raised its right hand. She turned around. It turned around, the bees carefully copying every swirl and flutter of her dress, the ones on the very edge buzzing desperately because they had furthest to fly. She carefully put down the big sack and reached out towards the figure. With another roar of wings it went shapeless for a moment, and then re-formed a little way away, but with a hand outstretched towards her. The bee that was the tip of its forefinger hovered just in front of Tiffany's fingernail. 'Shall we dance?' said Tiffany. In the clearing full of spinning seeds, she circled the swarm. It kept up pretty well, moving fingertip to buzzing tip, turning when she turned, although there were always a few bees racing to catch up. Then it raised both its arms and twirled in the opposite direction, the bees in the 'skirt' spreading out again as it spun. It was learning. Tiffany laughed and did the same thing. Swarm and girl whirled across the clearing. She felt happy and wondered if she'd ever felt this happy before. The gold light, the falling bracts, the dancing bees ... it was all one thing. This was the opposite of the dark desert. Here, light was everywhere and filled her up inside. She could feel herself here but see herself from above, twirling with a buzzing shadow that sparkled golden as the light struck the bees. Moments like this paid for it all. Then the witch made of bees leaned closer to Tiffany, as if staring at her with its thousands of little jewelled eyes. There was a faint piping noise from inside the figure and the bee-witch exploded into a spreading, buzzing cloud of insects which raced away across the clearing and disappeared. The only movement now was the whirring fall of the sycamore seeds. Tiffany breathed out. 'Now, some people would have found that scary,' said a voice behind her. Tiffany didn't turn round immediately. First she said, 'Good afternoon, Granny Weatherwax.' Then she turned round. 'Have you ever done this?' she demanded, still half-drunk with delight. 'It's rude to start with questions. You'd better come in and have a cup of tea,' said Granny Weatherwax. You'd barely know that anyone lived in the cottage. There were two chairs by the fire, one of them a rocking chair, and by the table were two chairs that didn't rock but did wobble because of the uneven stone floor. There was a dresser, and a rag-rug in front of the huge hearth. A broomstick leaned against the wall in one corner, next to something mysterious and pointy, under a cloth.
