An Upside-down World

IN A SMALL cottage in a little hamlet on the rolling fields of the sheep-haunted Chalk, Tiffany Aching had her sleeves rolled up and was sweating just as much as the mother-to-be – a young girl only a few years older than she herself was – who was leaning on her. Tiffany had already helped more than fifty babies into the world, plus lots and lots of lambs, and was generally held to be an expert midwife.

Unfortunately, Miss Milly Standish’s mother and several other women of varying ages, who had all claimed to be relatives and asserted their right to a place in the very small room, thought they were experts themselves and were generously telling Tiffany what she was doing wrong.

Already one or two of them had given her old-fashioned advice, wrong advice and possibly dangerous advice, but Tiffany kept her calm, tried not to shout at anybody and concentrated on dealing with the fact that Milly was having twins. She hoped that people couldn’t hear her teeth grinding.

It was always going to be a difficult birth with two boisterous babies fighting one another to be the first out. But Tiffany was focused on the new lives, and she would not allow Mr Death a place in this room. Another sweating push from the young mother, and first one and then another baby came yelling into the world to be handed to their grandmother and a neighbour.

‘Two lads! How wonderful!’ said Old Mother Standish with a distinct note of satisfaction.

Tiffany wiped her hands, mopped her brow and continued to look after the mother while the crowd cooed over the new arrivals. And then she noticed something. There was another child in that capacious young woman. Yes, a third baby was arriving, hardly noticed because of the battling brothers ahead of it.

Just then, Tiffany looked down and in a slight greenish-yellow haze saw a cat, pure white and as aloof as a duchess, staring at her. It was Granny Weatherwax’s cat, You – Tiffany knew the cat well, having given her to Granny Weatherwax herself only a few years ago. To her horror one of the older ladies went to shoo You away. Tiffany almost screamed.

‘Ladies, that cat belongs to Granny Weatherwax,’ she said sharply. ‘It might not be a good idea to make a very senior witch angry.’

Suddenly the gaggle backed away. Even here on the Chalk, the name of Mistress Weatherwax worked a treat. Her reputation had spread far and wide, further and wider than Granny Weatherwax had been in the habit of travelling herself – the dwarfs over in Sto Plains even had a name for her that translated as ‘Go Around the Other Side of the Mountain’.

But Tiffany, sweating again, wondered why Granny’s cat was here. Usually You would be hanging around Granny Weatherwax’s cottage back in Lancre, not all the way down here on the Chalk. Witches saw omens everywhere, of course. So was it some kind of omen? Something to do with what Jeannie had said? Not for the first time, she wondered how it was that cats seemed to be able to be in one place one moment, and then almost at the same time, reappear somewhere else.fn1

There was a cry of pain from the young mother and Tiffany gritted her teeth and turned her attention back to the job in hand. Witches do the task that is in front of them and what was in front of her right at that moment was a struggling young mother and another small head.

‘One big push, Milly, please. You’re having triplets.’

Milly groaned.

‘Another one. A small one,’ said Tiffany cheerfully, as a girl child arrived, unscathed, quite pretty for a newborn and small. She handed the baby girl to another relative, and then reality was back again.

As Tiffany began clearing up, she noticed – because noticing was the ground state of her being as a witch – that there was a lot more cooing over the two boys than there was for their sister. It was always good to recognize those things and put them away and keep them in mind, so that a little trouble wouldn’t, one day, become a larger trouble.

The ladies had produced the family groaning chair for Milly, so that she could sit in state to receive the congratulations of the throng. They were also busy congratulating each other, nodding sagely about the advice given which had, clearly, been the right advice since here was the evidence. Two strapping boys! Oh, and a little girl.

Bottles were opened, and a child was fetched and told to go across the fields to find Dad, who was working on the barley with his dad. Mum was beaming, especially since young Milly was very soon to be Mrs Robinson, because Mum had put her foot down very, very hard about that and made certain that young Mister Robinson was definitely going to do his duty by her girl. There hadn’t been a problem about this; this was the country after all, where boy would meet girl, as Milly had met her beau at Hogswatch, and nature would eventually take its course, right up until the moment when the girl’s mother would notice the bump. She would then tell her husband and her husband, over a convivial pint of beer, would have a word with the boy’s father, who would then talk to the boy. And usually it worked.

Tiffany went over to the old lady holding the little girl. ‘Can I see her for just a moment, please, just to see if she’s, you know, if she’s all right?’

The rather toothless old crone handed over the little girl with alacrity. After all, she knew that Tiffany, apart from being a midwife, was a witch, and you never knew what a witch might do if you got on the wrong side of one. And when the old granny went to get her share of the drink, Tiffany took the child in her arms and whispered a promise to her in a voice so low that no one could have heard. This little girl would clearly need some luck in her life. And with luck, now, she would get some. She took her back to her mother, who didn’t seem very impressed with her.

By now, Tiffany noticed, the little boys had names, but the girl didn’t. Worried about this, Tiffany said, ‘What about your girl? Can’t she have a name?’

The mother looked over. ‘Name her after yourself. Tiffany is a nice name.’

Tiffany was flattered, but it didn’t take the worry away about baby Tiffany. Those big, strapping boys were going to get most of the milk, she thought. But not if she could do something about it, and so she decided that this particular family was going to be visited almost every week for a time.

Then there was nothing for it, but to say, ‘Everything looks fine, you know where to find me, I’ll pop in and see you next week. And if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have other people to see.’

She kept on smiling, right up to the time when she came out of the cottage, picked up her broomstick and the white cat leaped onto the handle of it like a figurehead. The world is changing, Tiffany thought – I can feel it.

Suddenly she caught a flash of the red that showed a Feegle or two lurking behind a milk churn. Tiffany had, if only for a few days, once been the kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, and this created a bond between them that could never be broken. And they were always there – always, watching over her, making sure no harm came to their big wee hag.

But there was something different today. This lurking was somehow not like their usual lurking, and...

‘Oh, waily waily,’ came a voice. It was Daft Wullie, a Feegle who had been somewhere else when the brains of a Feegle – small enough to begin with – had been handed out. He was shut up suddenly with a ‘whmpf’ as Rob slapped a hand over his mouth.

‘Shut yer gob, Wullie. This is hag business, ye ken,’ he said, stepping out to stand in front of Tiffany, shuffling his feet and twiddling his rabbit-skull helmet in his hands. ‘It’s the big hag,’ he continued. ‘Jeannie tol’ me to come fetch ye...’

All the birds of the day, the bats and the owls of the night knew Tiffany Aching and didn’t fly in her way when she was busy, and the stick ploughed on through the air to Lancre. The little kingdom was a long flight from the Chalk and Tiffany found her mind filling up with an invisible grey mist, and in that thought there was nothing but grief. She could feel herself trying to push back time, but even the best witchcraft could not do that. She tried not to think, but it’s hard to stop your brain working, no matter how much you try. Tiffany was a witch, and a witch learned to respect her forebodings, even if she hoped that what she feared was not true.

It was early evening by the time she settled her broomstick down quietly outside Granny Weatherwax’s cottage, where she saw the unmistakable rotund shape of Nanny Ogg. The older witch had a pint mug in one hand and looked grey.

The cat, You, jumped off the broomstick instantly and headed into the cottage. The Nac Mac Feegles followed, making You scuttle just a little faster in that way cats scuttle when they want to look like, oh yes, it was their decision to speed up and, oh no, nothing to do with the little red-haired figures melting into the shadows of the cottage.

‘Good to see you, Tiff,’ said Nanny Ogg.

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ said Tiffany.

‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘Esme’s gone. In her sleep, last night, by the looks of it.’

‘I knew it,’ said Tiffany. ‘Her cat came to tell me. And the kelda sent Rob...’

Nanny Ogg looked Tiffany in the face and said, ‘Glad to see you’re not cryin’, my dear; that’s for later. You knows how Granny wanted things: no fuss or shoutin’, and definitely no cryin’. There’s other things as must be done first. Can you help, Tiff? She’s upstairs and you know what them stairs is like.’

Tiffany looked and saw the long, thin wicker basket that Granny had made, waiting by the stairs. It was almost exactly the same size as Granny. Minus her hat, of course.

Nanny said, ‘That’s Esme for you, that is. Does everything for ’erself.’

Granny Weatherwax’s cottage was largely built of creaks, and you could play a tune with them if you wanted to. With accompaniment from the harmonious woodwork, Tiffany followed Nanny Ogg as she huffed and puffed up the cramped little staircase that wound up and round like a snake – Nanny always said that you needed a corkscrew to get through it – until they arrived at the bedroom and the small, sad deathbed.

It could, Tiffany thought, have been the bed of a child, and there, laid out properly, was Granny Weatherwax herself, looking as if she was just sleeping. And there too, on the bed by her mistress, was You the cat.

There was a familiar card on Granny’s chest, and a sudden thought struck Tiffany like a gong.

‘Nanny, you don’t suppose Granny could just be Borrowing, do you? Do you think that while her body is here, her actual self is... elsewhere?’ She looked at the white cat curled upon the bed and added hopefully, ‘In You?’

Granny Weatherwax had been an expert at Borrowing – moving her mind into that of another creature, using its body, sharing its experiences.fn2 It was dangerous witchery, for an inexperienced witch risked losing herself in the mind of the other and never coming back. And, of course, whilst away from one’s body, people could get the wrong idea...

Nanny silently picked up the card from Granny’s chest. They looked at it together:

Nanny Ogg turned it over as Tiffany’s hand crept towards Granny Weatherwax’s wrist and – even now, even when every atom of her witch being told her that Granny was no longer there – the young girl part of her tried to feel for even the slightest beat of life.

On the back of the card, however, there was a scrawled message that pretty much put the final strand in the willow basket below.

Quietly Tiffany said, ‘No longer “probably”.’ And then the rest of the note rocketed into her mind. ‘What? What does she mean by “All of it goes to Tiffany...”?’ Her voice tailed off as she looked at Nanny Ogg, aghast.

‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘That’s Granny’s writing, right enough. Good enough for me. You gets the cottage and the surroundin’ grounds, the herbs and the bees an’ everything else in the place. Oh, but she always promised me the pink jug and basin set.’ She looked at Tiffany and went on, ‘I hopes you don’t mind?’

Mind? Tiffany thought. Nanny Ogg is asking me if I mind? And then her mind rattled on to: Two steadings? I mean, I won’t need to live with my parents... But it will be a lot of travel... And the main thought hit her like a thunderbolt. How can I possibly tread in the footsteps of Granny Weatherwax? She is... was... unfollowable!

Nanny didn’t get to be an old senior witch without learning a thing or two along the way. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot just yet, Tiff,’ she said briskly. ‘It won’t solve anything an’ will just make you walk odd. There’s plenty of time later to talk about... all of that. Right now, we needs to get on with what must be done...’

Tiffany and Nanny had dealt with death many times. Out in the Ramtops, witches did the things that had to be done to make the departed presentable for the next world – the slightly messy things that weren’t talked about, and other little things like opening a window for the soul to get out. Granny Weatherwax had, in fact, already opened the window, though her soul, Tiffany thought, could probably get out of anywhere and go anywhere she chose.

Nanny Ogg held up the two pennies from the bedside table and said, ‘She left ’em ready for us. Just like Esme, thoughtful to the end like. Shall we begin?’

Unfortunately Nanny had brought Granny Weatherwax’s bottle of triple-distilled peach brandy – for medicinal use only – from the scullery; she said it would help her as she went through the rites for their sister in the craft, and although they dealt with Granny Weatherwax as if she were a precious gem, Nanny Ogg’s drinking was not helping.

‘She looks good, don’t she?’ said Nanny after the nasty bits – and, thank goodness, Granny had still had all her own teeth – were over and done with. ‘It’s a shame. Always thought as I’d be the first to go, what with my drinkin’ and suchlike, especially the suchlike. I’ve done a lot o’ that.’ In fact, Nanny Ogg had done a great deal of everything, and was commonly held to be so broad-minded that you could pull her mind out through her ears and tie a hat on with it.

‘Is there going to be a funeral?’ asked Tiffany.

‘Well, you know Esme. She wasn’t one for that kind of thing – never one to push herself forwardfn3 – and we witches don’t much like funerals. Granny called them fuss.’

Tiffany thought of the only other witch’s funeral she had been to. The late Miss Treason, for whom she had worked, had wanted a lot of fuss. She hadn’t wanted to miss the event herself either, so she had sent out invitations in advance. It had been... memorable.

As they put Granny Weatherwax to bed – as Granny had called it – Nanny said, ‘Queen Magrat has to be told. She’s away in Genua at the moment with the King, but I daresay as she’ll be along soon as possible, what with all these railways and whatnot. Anyone else as needs to know will probably know already, you mark my words. But first thing tomorrow, before they get here, we’ll bury Esme the way she wanted, quiet-like an’ no fuss, in that wickerwork basket downstairs. Very cheap, wickerwork baskets are, and quick to make, Esme always said. An’ you know Esme, she’s such a frugal person – nothing goes to waste.’

Tiffany spent the night on the truckle bed, a tiny thing which was usually pushed away when it wasn’t needed. Nanny Ogg had settled for the rocking chair downstairs, which squeaked and complained every time she rocked back. But Tiffany didn’t sleep. There were a series of half-sleeps as the light of the moon filtered into the room, and every time she looked up there was You, the cat, asleep at the foot of Granny’s bed, curled up like a little white moon herself.

Tiffany had watched the dead before many times, of course – it was the custom for a departing soul to have company the night before any funeral or burial, as if to make a point to anything that might be... lurking: this person mattered, there is someone here to make sure nothing evil creeps in at this time of danger. The night-time creaking of woodwork filled the room now and Tiffany, fully awake, listened as Granny Weatherwax began making sounds of her own as her body settled down. I’ve done this often, she told herself. It’s what we witches do. We don’t talk about it, but we do it. We watch the dead to see that no harm comes to them out of the darkness. Although, as Nanny said, maybe it’s the living you have to watch – for despite what most people thought, the dead don’t hurt anybody.

What do I do now? she thought in the small hours of the night. What’s going to happen tomorrow? The world is upside down. I can’t replace Granny. Never in a hundred years. And then she thought, What did young Esmerelda say when Nanny Gripes told her that her steading was the whole world?

She twisted and turned, then opened her eyes and looked up suddenly to see an owl gazing in at her from the windowsill, its huge eyes hanging in the darkness like a lantern to another world. Another omen? Granny had liked owls...

Now her Second Thoughts were at work, thinking about what she was thinking. You can’t say you’re not good enough – no witch would ever say that, they told her. I mean, you know you are pretty good, yes; the senior witches know that you once threw the Queen of the Fairies from our world, and they saw you go through the gate with the hiver. They all saw you return too.

But is that enough? her First Thoughts butted in. After... after we have done what we need to do, I could just put on my number-two drawers and go home on my broomstick. I have to go anyway, even if I take on the steading. I have to tell my parents. And I’m going to need help on the Chalk... it’s going to be a nightmare if I have to be in two places at once. I’m not like a cat...

And as she thought that, she looked down, and there was You looking at her, but not just looking – a penetrating stare of the kind that only cats can achieve, and it seemed to Tiffany that this meant: Get on with your job, there is a lot of work to be doing. Don’t think of yourself. Think for all.

Then tiredness was finally her friend, and Tiffany Aching had a few hours’ sleep.

The clacks rattled as the news of Granny Weatherwax went down the lines in the morning, and people who got the message faced it in their various ways.

In the study of her manor house, Mrs Earwigfn4 got the news while she was writing her next book on ‘Flower Magick’ and there was a sudden sense of wrongness, of the world going askew. She put the right expression of grief on her face and went to tell her husband, an elderly wizard, trying to keep her joy hidden as she realized what this could mean: she, Mrs Earwig, was going to be one of the most senior witches in Lancre. Perhaps she could get her latest girl into that old cottage in the woods? Her sharp face went even sharper as she thought how magickal she could make it look with the help of a few curse-nets, charms, runic symbols, silver stars, black velvet drapes and – oh yes, the essential crystal ball.

She called to her latest young trainee to fetch her cape and broomstick, and pulled on her very best pair of black lacy gloves, the ones with the silver symbols stitched over each fingertip. She would need to Make an Entrance...

In Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium, 4 Tenth Egg Street, Ankh-Morpork – ‘Everything for the Hag in a Hurry’ – Mrs Proust said, ‘What a shame, but the old girl had a good innings.’

Witches don’t have leaders, of course, but everyone knew that Granny Weatherwax had been the best leader they didn’t have, so now someone else would need to step forward to generally steer the witches. And to keep an eye too on anyone prone to a bit of cackling.

Mrs Proust put down an imitation cackle she had taken from her Compare the Cackle display, and looked towards her son Derek and said, ‘There’s going to be an argument now, or my name’s not Eunice Proust. But it will surely be young Tiffany Aching who gets that steading. We all saw what she can do. My word, we did!’ And in her mind, she said, Go to it, Tiffany, before somebody else does.

In the palace, Drumknott the clerk hurried with the Ankh-Morpork Times to the Oblong Office where Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of the city, had been waiting for his daily crossword to arrive.

But Vetinari already knew the news that mattered. ‘There will be some trouble. Mark my words, I expect squabbling on the distaff side.’ He sighed. ‘Any ideas, Drumknott? Who will rise to the top of the brew, do you think?’ He tapped the top of his ebony cane as he considered his own question.

‘Well, my lord,’ said Drumknott, ‘the rumour on the clacks is that it’s likely to be Tiffany Aching. Quite young.’

‘Quite young, yes. And any good?’ asked Vetinari.

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘What about this woman called Mrs Earwig?’

Drumknott made a face. ‘All show, my lord, doesn’t get her hands dirty. Lot of jewellery, black lace, you know the type. Well-connected, but that’s about all I can say.’

‘Ah yes, now you tell me, I’ve seen her. Pushy and full of herself. She’s the kind who goes to soirees.’

‘So do you, my lord.’

‘Yes, but I am the tyrant, so it’s the job I have to do, alas. Now, this Aching young lady – what else do we know about her? Wasn’t there some bother the last time she was in the city?’

‘My lord, the Nac Mac Feegles are very fond of her and she of them. They consider themselves an honour guard to her on occasions.’

‘Drumknott.’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘I’m going to use a word I’ve not used before. Crivens! We don’t want Feegles around here again. We can’t afford it!’

‘Unlikely, my lord. Mistress Aching has them in hand and she’s unlikely to want to repeat the events of her last visit, which after all had no long-lasting damage.’

‘Didn’t the King’s Head become the King’s Neck?’fn5

‘Yes indeed, my lord, but it has in fact proved a welcome change to many, most of all to the publican, who is still getting wealthy because of the tourists. It’s in the guide books.’

‘If she has the Nac Mac Feegles on her side, she is a force to be reckoned with,’ Vetinari mused.

‘The young lady is also known to be thoughtful, helpful and clever.’

‘Without being insufferable? I wish I could say the same of Mrs Earwig. Hmm,’ said Vetinari, ‘we should keep a careful eye on her...’

Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, stared at his bedroom wall, and cried again, and once he’d pulled himself together he sent for Ponder Stibbons, his right-hand wizard.

‘The clacks confirms what Hex told you, Mr Stibbons,’ he said sadly. ‘The witch Esme Weatherwax of Lancre, known to many as Granny Weatherwax, has died.’ The Archchancellor looked slightly embarrassed. There was a bundle of letters on his lap, which he was turning over and over. ‘There was a bond, you see, when we were both young, but she wanted to be the best of all witches and I hoped one day to be Archchancellor. Alas for us, our dreams came true.’fn6

‘Oh dear, sir. Would you like me to arrange your schedule so that you can attend the funeral? There will be a funeral, I assume...’

‘Mr Stibbons, schedules be damned. I am leaving now. Right now.’

‘With respect, Archchancellor, I must tell you, sir, that you promised to go to a meeting with the Guild of Accountants and Usurers.’

‘Those penny-pinchers! Tell them that I have got an urgent matter of international affairs to deal with.’

Ponder hesitated. ‘That is not strictly true, is it, Archchancellor.’

Ridcully riposted with, ‘Oh yes, it is!’ Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax... ‘How long have you been working for the University, young man?’ he boomed at Stibbons. ‘Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your very capable hands.’

And in that... other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that – for a time, at least – would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable.

The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendours of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings.

When the moment was right...

fn1 She did not know it, but a keen young philosopher in Ephebe had pondered exactly that same conundrum, until he was found one morning – most of him, anyway – surrounded by a number of purring, and very well fed, cats. No one had seemed keen to continue his experiments after that.

fn2 And its meals. It’s amazing how a night as an owl, snacking on voles, can really leave a nasty taste in your mouth.

fn3 She hadn’t ever needed to. Granny Weatherwax was like the prow of a ship. Seas parted when she turned up.

fn4 Pronounced Ah-wij.

fn5 The only known instance of the Feegles rebuilding a pub they had drunk dry and demolished. The rebuilt version, however, turned out back to front. Complete with a big ripe boil on the neck in question.

fn6 Thus proving that dreams that come true are not always the right dreams. Does wearing a glass slipper lead to a comfortable life? If everything you touch turns into marshmallows, won’t that make things a bit... sticky?

CHAPTER 4

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