A Hat Full Of Sky (10 page)

“There’s a lot of coins in here, Mr. Weavall,” she’d said.

Mr. Weavall relaxed. “Ah, that’s right,” he’d said. “Then I won’t be a burden.”

Today Mr. Weavall was asleep when they called on him, snoring with his mouth open and his yellow-brown teeth showing. But he awoke in an instant, stared at them, and then said, “My boy Toby’s coming to see I Sat’day.”

“That’s nice, Mr. Weavall,” said Miss Level, plumping up his cushions. “We’ll get the place nice and tidy.”

“He’s done very well for hisself, you know,”
said Mr. Weavall proudly. “Got a job indoors with no heavy lifting. He said he’ll see I all right in my old age, but I told him, I
told
him I’d pay my way when I go, the whole thing, the salt and earth and tuppence for the ferryman, too!”

Today Miss Level gave him a shave. His hands shook too much for him to do it himself. (Yesterday she’d cut his toenails, because he couldn’t reach them; it was not a safe spectator sport, especially when one smashed a windowpane.)

“It’s all in a box under my chair,” he said as Tiffany nervously wiped the last bits of foam off him. “Just check for me, will you, Mary?”

Oh, yes. That was the ceremony, every day.

There was the box, and there was the money. He asked every time. There was always the same amount of money.

“Tuppence for the ferryman?” said Tiffany, as they walked home.

“Mr. Weavall remembers all the old funeral traditions,” said Miss Level. “Some people believe that when you die, you cross the River of Death and have to pay the ferryman. People don’t seem to worry about that these days. Perhaps there’s a bridge now.”

“He’s always talking about…his funeral.”

“Well, it’s important to him. Sometimes old people are like that. They’d hate people to think that they were too poor to pay for their own funeral. Mr. Weavall’d die of shame if he couldn’t pay for his own funeral.”

“It’s very sad, him being all alone like that. Something should be done for him,” said Tiffany.

“Yes. We’re doing it,” said Miss Level. “And Mrs. Tussy keeps a friendly eye on him.”

“Yes, but it shouldn’t have to be us, should it?”

“Who should it
have
to be?” said Miss Level.

“Well, what about this son he’s always talking about?” said Tiffany.

“Young Toby? He’s been dead for fifteen years. And Mary was the old man’s daughter, she died quite young. Mr. Weavall is very shortsighted, but he sees better in the past.”

Tiffany didn’t know what to reply except: “It shouldn’t be like this.”

“There isn’t a way things
should
be. There’s just what happens, and what we do.”

“Well, couldn’t you help him by magic?”

“I see to it that he’s in no pain, yes,” said Miss Level.

“But that’s just herbs.”

“It’s still magic. Knowing things is magical, if other people don’t know them.”

“Yes, but
you
know what I mean,” said Tiffany, who felt she was losing this argument.

“Oh, you mean make him young again?” said Miss Level. “Fill his house with gold? That’s not what witches do.”

“We see to it that lonely old men get a cooked dinner and cut their toenails?” said Tiffany, just a little sarcastically.

“Well, yes,” said Miss Level. “We do what can be done. Mistress Weatherwax said you’ve got to learn that witchcraft is mostly about doing quite ordinary things.”

“And you have to do what she says?” said Tiffany.

“I listen to her advice,” said Miss Level coldly.

“Mistress Weatherwax is the head witch, then, is she?”

“Oh no!” said Miss Level, looking shocked. “Witches are all equal. We don’t have things like head witches. That’s
quite
against the spirit of witchcraft.”

“Oh, I see,” said Tiffany.

“Besides,” Miss Level added, “Mistress Weatherwax would never allow that sort of thing.”

Suddenly, things were going missing from the households around the Chalk. This wasn’t the
occasional egg or chicken. Clothes were vanishing off washing lines. A pair of boots mysteriously disappeared from under the bed of Nosey Hinds, the oldest man in the village—“And they was damn good boots, they could walk home from the pub all by themselves if I but pointed they in the right direction,” he complained to anyone who would listen. “And they marched off wi’ my old hat, too. And I’d got he just as I wanted he, all soft and floppy!”

A pair of trousers and a long coat vanished from a hook belonging to Abiding Swindell, the ferret keeper, and the coat still had ferrets living in the inside pockets. And who,
who
climbed through the bedroom window of Clem Doins and shaved off his beard, which had been so long that he could tuck it into his belt? Not a hair was left. He had to go around with a scarf over his face, in case the sight of his poor pink chin frightened the ladies.

It was probably witches, people agreed, and made a few more curse nets to hang in their windows.

However…

On the far side of the Chalk, where the long green slopes came down to the flat fields of the plain, there were big thickets of bramble and
hawthorn. Usually, these were alive with birdsong, but this particular one, the one just here, was alive with cussing.

“Ach, crivens! Will ye no’ mind where ye’re puttin’ yer foot, ye spavie!”

“I canna help it! It’s nae easy, bein’ a knee!”

“Ye think ye got troubles? Ye wanna be doon here in the boots! That old man Swindell couldnae ha’ washed his feet in years! It’s fair reekin’ doon here!”

“Reekin’, izzit? Well, you try bein’ in this pocket! Them ferrets ne’er got oot to gae to the lavie, if you get my meanin’!”

“Crivens! Will ye dafties no’ shut up?”

“Oh, aye? Hark at him! Just ’cuz ye’re up in the heid, you think you know everythin’? Fra’ doon here ye’re nothing but deid weight, pal!”

“Aye, right! I’m wi’the elbows on this one! Where’d you be if it wuzn’t for us carryin’ ye aroound? Who’s ye think ye are?”

“I’m Rob Anybody Feegle, as you ken well enough, an’ I’ve had enough o’ the lot o’ yez!”

“Okay, Rob, but it’s real stuffy in here!”

“Ach, an’ I’m fed up wi’ the stomach complainin’, too!”

“Gentlemen.” This was the voice of the toad; no one else would dream of calling the Nac Mac Feegle gentlemen. “Gentlemen, time is of the
essence. The cart will be here soon! You must
not
miss it!”

“We need more time to practice, Toad! We’re walkin’ like a feller wi’ nae bones and a serious case o’ the trots!” said a voice a little higher up than the rest.

“At least you
are
walking. That’s good enough. I wish you luck, gentlemen.”

There was a cry from farther along the thickets, where a lookout had been watching the road.

“The cart’s comin’ doon the hill!”

“Okay, lads!” shouted Rob Anybody. “Toad, you look after Jeannie, y’hear? She’ll need a thinkin’ laddie to rely on while I’m no’ here! Right, ye scunners! It’s do or die! Ye ken what to do! Ye lads on the ropes, pull us up noo!” The bushes shook. “Right! Pelvis, are ye ready?”

“Aye, Rob!”

“Knees? Knees? I said,
knees
?”

“Aye, Rob, but—”

“Feets?”

“Aye, Rob!”

The bushes shook again.

“Right! Remember: right, left, right, left! Pelvis, knee, foot on the groound! Keep a spring
in the step, feets! Are you ready? All together, boys…walk!”

It was a big surprise for Mr. Crabber, the carter. He’d been staring vaguely at nothing, thinking only of going home, when
something
stepped out of the bushes and into the road. It looked human or, rather, it looked slightly more human than it looked like anything else. But it seemed to be having trouble with its knees, and walked as though they’d been tied together.

However, the carter didn’t spend too much time thinking about that because, clutched in one gloved hand that was waving vaguely in the air, was something gold.

This
immediately
identified the stranger, as far as the carter was concerned. He was not, as first sight might suggest, some old tramp to be left by the roadside, but an obvious gentleman down on his luck, and it was practically the carter’s
duty
to help him. He slowed the horse to a standstill.

The stranger didn’t really have a face. There was nothing much to see between the droopy hat brim and the turned-up collar of the coat except a lot of beard. But from somewhere within the beard a voice said:

“…Shudupshudup…will ye all shudup while I’m talkin’….

Ahem. Good day ta’ ye, carter fellow my ol’ fellowy fellow! If ye’ll gie us—me a lift as far as yer are goin’, we—I’ll gie ye this fine shiny golden coin!”

The figure lurched forward and thrust its hand in front of Mr. Crabber’s face.

It was quite a large coin. And it was certainly gold. It had come from the treasure of the old dead king who was buried in the main part of the Feegles’ mound. Oddly enough, the Feegles weren’t hugely interested in gold once they’d stolen it, because you couldn’t drink it and it was difficult to eat. In the mound, they mostly used the old coins and plates to reflect candlelight and give the place a nice glow. It was no hardship to give some away.

The carter stared at it. It was more money than he had ever seen in his life.

“If…sir…would like to…hop on the back of the cart, sir,” he said, carefully taking it.

“Ach, right you are, then,” said the bearded mystery man after a pause. “Just a moment, this needs a wee bitty organizin’…Okay, youse hands, you just grab the side o’ the cart, and you leftie leg, ye gotta kinda sidle along…ach, crivens! Ye gotta bend! Bend! C’mon, get it
right!” The hairy face turned to the carter. “Sorry aboot this,” it said. “I talk to my knees, but they dinna listen to me.”

“Is that right?” said the carter weakly. “I have trouble with my knees in the wet weather. Goose grease works.”

“Ah, weel, these knees is gonna get more’n a greasin’ if I ha’ to get doon there an’ sort them oot!” snarled the hairy man.

The carter heard various bangs and grunts behind him as the man hauled himself onto the tail of the cart.

“Okay, let’s gae,” said a voice. “We havena got all day. And youse knees, you’re sacked! Crivens, I’m walkin’ like I got a big touch of the stoppies! You gae up to the stomach and send doon a couple of good knee men!”

The carter bit the coin thoughtfully as he urged the horse into a walk. It was such pure gold that he left toothmarks. That meant his passenger was very, very rich. That was becoming very important at this point.

“Can ye no’ go a wee bitty faster, my good man, my good man?” said the voice behind him, after they had gone a little way.

“Ah, well, sir,” said the carter, “see them boxes
and crates? I’ve got a load of eggs, and those apples mustn’t be bruised, sir, and then there’s those jugs of—”

There were some bangs and crashes behind him, including the
sploosh
that a large crate of eggs makes when it hits a road.

“Ye can gae faster noo, eh?” said the voice.

“Hey, that was my—” Mr. Crabber began.

“I’ve got another one o’ they big wee gold coins for ye!” And a heavy and smelly arm landed on the carter’s shoulder. Dangling from the glove on the end of it was, indeed, another coin. It was ten times what the load had been worth.

“Oh, well…” said the carter, carefully taking the coin. “Accidents do happen, eh, sir?”

“Aye, especially if I dinna think I’m goin’ fast enough,” said the voice behind him. “We—I mean I’m a big hurry tae get tae yon mountains, ye ken!”

“But I’m not a stagecoach, sir,” said the carter reproachfully as he urged his old horse into a trot.

“Stagecoach, eh? What’s one o’ them things?”

“That’s what you’ll need to catch to take you up into the mountains, sir. You can catch one in Twoshirts, sir. I never go any farther than
Twoshirts, sir. But you won’t be able to get the stage today, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got to make stops at the other villages, sir, and it’s a long way, and on Wednesdays it runs early, sir, and this cart can only go so fast, sir, and—”

“If we—I dinna catch yon coach today I’ll gie’ ye the hidin’ o’ yer life,” growled the passenger. “But if I
do
catch yon coach today, I’ll gie ye five o’ them gold coins.”

Mr. Crabber took a deep breath, and yelled:

“Hi! Hyah! Giddyup, Henry!”

All in all, it seemed to Tiffany, most of what witches did really
was
very similar to work. Dull work. Miss Level didn’t even use her broomstick very much.

That was a bit depressing. It was all a bit…well, goody-goody. Obviously that was better than being baddy-baddy, but a little more…excitement would be nice. Tiffany wouldn’t like anyone to think she’d expected to be issued with a magic wand on Day One but, well, the way Miss Level talked about magic, the whole
point
of witchcraft lay in not using any.

Mind you, Tiffany thought she would be
depressingly good at not using any. It was doing the simplest magic that was hard.

Miss Level patiently showed her how to make a shamble, which could more or less be made of anything that seemed a good idea at the time provided it also contained something alive, like a beetle or a fresh egg.

Tiffany couldn’t get the hang of it. That was…annoying. Didn’t she have the virtual hat? Didn’t she have First Sight and Second Thoughts? Miss Tick and Miss Level could throw a shamble together in seconds, but Tiffany just got a tangle, dripping with egg. Over and over again.

“I know I’m doing it right, but it just twists up!” Tiffany complained. “What can I do?”