"Are you all right, miss?" said the man. Tiffany ignored him. A rider was approaching and snow followed after him, spreading and widening behind him like a cloak, soundless as a wish, thick as fog. Without taking her eyes off him, Tiffany reached into her pocket and gripped the tiny Cornucopia. Hah! She walked forward. The Wintersmith dismounted from his snow-white horse when it had drawn level with the old cottage. Tiffany stopped about twenty feet away, her heart pounding. "My lady," said the Wintersmith, and bowed. He looked…better, and older. file:///F|/MUSIC/Pratchett,%20Terry%20-%20[Discworld...]%20-%20Wintersmith%20[html,%20jpg]/wintersmith (204 of 269)26/12/2006 19:25:36
Wintersmith "I warn you! I've got a Cornucopia and I'm not afraid to use it!" said Tiffany. But she hesitated. He did look almost human, except for that fixed, strange grin. "How did you find me?" she said. "For you I have learned," said the figure. "I learned how to search. I am human!" Really? But his mouth doesn't look right, said her Third Thoughts. It's pale inside, like snow. That's not a boy there. It just thinks it is. One big pumpkin, her Second Thoughts urged. They get really hard at this time of year. Shoot him now! Tiffany herself, the one on the outside, the one who could feel the air on her face, thought: I can't just do that! All he's doing is standing there talking. All this is my fault! He wants never-ending winter, said her Third Thoughts. Everyone you know will die! She was sure the eyes of the Wintersmith could see right into her mind. The summer kills the winter, the Third Thoughts insisted. That's how it works! But not like this, Tiffany thought. I know it's not supposed to be like this! It feels wrong. It's not the right…story. The king of winter can't be killed by a flying pumpkin! The Wintersmith was watching her carefully. Thousands of Tiffany-shaped flakes were falling around him. "We will finish the Dance now?" he said. "I am human, just like you!" He held out a hand. "Do you know what human is?" said Tiffany.
"Yes! Easy! Iron enough to make a nail!" said the Wintersmith promptly. He beamed, as if he'd done a trick successfully. "And now, please, we dance…." He took a step forward. Tiffany backed away. If you dance now, her Third Thoughts warned, that will be the end of it. You'll be believing in yourself and trusting in your star, and big twinkly things thousands of miles up in the sky don't care if they twinkle on everlasting snow. "I'm…not ready," Tiffany said, hardly above a whisper. "But time is passing," said the Wintersmith. "I am human, I know these things. Are you not a goddess in human form?" The eyes bored into her. No, I'm not, she thought. I'll always be just…Tiffany Aching. The Wintersmith drew closer, his hand still outstretched. "Time to dance, Lady. Time to finish the Dance." Thoughts leaked out away from Tiffany's grasp. The eyes of the Wintersmith filled her mind with nothing but whiteness, like a field of pure snow….
"Aaaiiiiieeeee!" The door of old Miss Treason's cottage flew open and…something came out, staggering through the snow. It was a witch. You could not mistake it. She—it was probably a she, but some things are so horrible that worrying about how to address a letter to them is silly—had a hat with a point that curled like a snake. It was on top of dripping strands of mad, greasy hair, which were perched on a nightmare of a face. It was green, like the hands that waved black fingernails that were really terrible claws. Tiffany stared. The Wintersmith stared. The people stared. As the horrible screaming, lurching thing drew nearer, the details got clearer, like the brown rotting teeth and the warts. Lots of warts. Even the warts on the warts had warts. Annagramma had sent off for everything. Part of Tiffany wanted to laugh, even now, but the Wintersmith snatched at her hand— —and the witch grabbed his shoulder.
"Don't you take hold of her like that! How dare you! I'm a witch, you know!" Annagramma's voice wasn't easy on the ear at the best of times, but when she was frightened or angry, it had a whine that bored right into the head. "Let go of her, I say," screamed Annagramma. The Wintersmith looked stunned. Having to listen to Annagramma in a rage was hard for someone who hadn't had ears for very long. "Let her go," she yelled. Then she threw a fireball. She missed. Possibly she meant to. A ball of flaming gas whizzing nearby usually makes most people stop what they are doing. But most people don't melt. The Wintersmith's leg dropped off. Later, on the journey through the blizzard, Tiffany wondered how the Wintersmith worked.
He was made of snow, but he could make it walk and talk. That must mean he had to think about it all the time. He had to. Humans didn't have to think about their bodies all the time, because their bodies knew what to do. But snow doesn't even know how to stand up straight. Annagramma was glaring at him as if he'd done something really annoying. He looked around, as if puzzled, cracks appearing across his chest, and then he was just crumbling snow, collapsing into glittery crystals. The snow began to pour down now, as if the clouds were being squeezed. Annagramma pulled the mask to one side and stared first at the heap and then at Tiffany. "All right," she said, "what just happened? Was he supposed to do that?"
"I was coming to see you and…that's the Wintersmith!" was all that Tiffany could manage at that point. "You mean like…the Wintersmith?" said Annagramma. "Isn't he just a story? What is he after you for?" she added accusingly. "It's…he…I…" Tiffany began, but there was nowhere to start. "He's real! I've got to get away from him!" she said. "I've got to get away! It takes too long to explain!" For a horrible moment she thought Annagramma was still going to demand the whole story, but she reached out and grabbed Tiffany's hand with a black rubber claw. "Then get out of here right now! Oh, no, you've still got Miss Treason's old broom? Totally useless! Use mine!" She dragged Tiffany toward the cottage, as the snowflakes thickened. "'Iron enough to make a nail'!" said Tiffany, trying to keep up. She couldn't think of anything else to say, and it was suddenly very important. "He thought he was human—"
"I've only knocked over his snowman, you fool. He'll be back!"
"Yes, but iron enough, you see, to—" A green hand slapped her face, but this hurt less than it might because of the rubber. "Don't babble! I thought you were clever! I really don't know what this is about, but if I had that thing after me, I wouldn't stand around babbling!" Annagramma pulled across the Wicked Witch De-Luxe Mask With Free Dangling Booger, adjusted the hang of the booger, and turned to the villagers, who'd been rooted to the spot all this time. "What are you all staring at? Haven't you ever seen a witch before?" she shouted. "Go back home! Oh, and I'll be down tomorrow with some physic for your little boy, Mrs. Carter!" They stared at the green face, the rotted teeth, the stinking hair, and the huge booger, made in fact of glass, and fled. Still drunk with terror and relief, Tiffany rocked gently, muttering "Iron enough to make a nail!" until Annagramma shook her. The thick flakes were dropping so fast that it was hard to see her face. "Tiffany, broomstick. Broomstick fly," said Annagramma. "Fly a long way! Do you hear me! Somewhere safe!"
"But he…the poor thing thinks that…"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's all very important," said Annagramma, dragging her toward the cottage wall, where her broomstick leaned. She half pushed, half lifted Tiffany onto it and looked up. Snow was pouring out of the sky like a waterfall now. "He's coming back!" she snapped, and said a few words under her breath. The broomstick shot straight up and disappeared into the fading, snow-filled light.
CHAPTER TEN
Going Home G ranny Weatherwax looked up from the saucer of ink, in which a tiny Tiffany was disappearing into the whiteness of the blizzard. She was smiling, but with Granny Weatherwax this did not necessarily mean that something nice was happening. "We could ha' taken him doon easy," said Rob Anybody reproachfully. "Ye should ha' let us."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps he'd have frozen you solid?" said Granny. "Besides, there's a bigger task ahead of the Nac Mac Feegles. Your big wee hag needs you to do two things. One of them is hard, the other one is very hard." The Feegles cheered up when they heard this. They were everywhere in Mrs. Ogg's kitchen. Some were perched on Nanny Ogg herself, and Miss Tick looked very uncomfortable surrounded by them. Unlike Miss Tick, Feegles rarely had an opportunity for a bath. "Firstly," said Granny, "she will need you to go into the…Underworld, to fetch the Summer Lady." The significant pause did not seem to bother the Feegles at all. "Oh aye, we can do that," said Rob Anybody. "We can get into anywhere. An' that's the verra hard bit, is it?"
"And out again?" said Granny. "Oh, aye," said Rob firmly. "Mostly we get thrown oot!"
"The very hard part," said Granny, "will be finding a Hero."
"That's no' hard," said Rob. "We're a' heroes here!" A cheer went up. "Really?" said Granny. "Are you frightened to go into the Underworld, Rob Anybody?"
"Me? No!" Rob Anybody looked around at his brothers and grinned hugely. "Spell the word 'marmalade,' then." Granny Weatherwax pushed a pencil across Nanny Ogg's table and sat back in her chair. "Go on. Right now. And no one is to help you!" Rob backed away. Granny Weatherwax was the hag o' all hags—he knew that. There was no telling what she might do to an errant Feegle. He picked up the pencil nervously, and placed the pointy end against the wood of the table. Other Feegles clustered around, but under Granny's frown no one dared to even cheer him on. Rob stared upward, his lips moving and sweat beading his forehead. "Mmmmaa…" he said. "One," said Granny. Rob blinked. "Hey? Who's countin'?" he protested. "Me," said Granny. The kitten You leaped onto her lap and curled up. "Crivens, ye never said there wuz gonna be countin'!"
"Didn't I? The rules can change at any time! Two!" Rob scribbled a passable M, hesitated, and then drew an R just as Granny said "Three!"
"There's gonna have tae be a 'A' in there, Rob," said Billy Bigchin. He looked up defiantly at Granny and added: "I heard tell the rules can change at any time, right?"
"Certainly. Five!" Rob scratched in an A and added another M in a burst of creativity. "Six and a half," said Granny, calmly stroking the kitten. "Whut? Ach, crivens," muttered Rob, and wiped a sweaty hand on his kilt. Then he gripped the pencil again and drew an L. It had a rather wavy foot because the pencil skidded out of his hands and the point broke. He growled and drew his sword. "Eight," said Granny. Wood shavings flew as Rob hacked a rather ragged fresh point out of the pencil. "Nine." An A and a D were scribbled by a Rob, whose eyes were now bulging and whose cheeks were red. "Ten." Rob stood to attention, looking mostly nervous but slightly proud, beside MRAMLAD. The Feegles cheered, and those nearest to him fanned him with their kilts. "Eleven!"
