'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 further 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 dinnae catch yon coach today I'll gi'e 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 even 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. 1 know I'm doing it right but it just twists up!' Tiffany complained. 'What can I do?'
'We could make an omelette?' said Miss Level cheerfully. 'Oh, please, Miss Level!' Tiffany wailed. Miss Level patted her on the back. 'It'll happen. Perhaps you're trying too hard. One day it'll come. The power does come, you know. You just have to put yourself in its path-'
'Couldn't you make one that I could use for a while, to get the hang of it?'
'I'm afraid I can't,' said Miss Level. 'A shamble is a very tricky thing. You can't even carry one around, except as an ornament. You have to make it for yourself, there and then, right where and when you want to use it.'
'Why?' said Tiffany. 'To catch the moment,' said the other part of Miss Level, coming in. The way you tie the knots, the way the string runs -'
'- the freshness of the egg, perhaps, and the moisture in the air -' said the first Miss Level. '- the tension of the twigs and the kind of things that you just happen to have in your pocket at that moment -'
'- even the way the wind is blowing,' the first Miss Level concluded. 'All these things make a kind of... of picture of the here-and-now when you move them right. And I can't even tell you how to move them, because I don't know.'
'But you do move them,' said Tiffany, getting lost. 'I saw you-'
'I do it but I don't know how I do,' said Miss Level, picking up a couple of twigs and taking a length of thread. Miss Level sat down at the table opposite Miss Level, and all four hands started to put a shamble together. 'This reminds me of when I was in the circus,' she said. 1 was -'
'- walking out for a while with Marco and Falco, the Flying Pastrami Brothers,' the other part of Miss Level went on. 'They would do -'
'- triple somersaults fifty feet up with no safety net. What lads they were! As alike as two -'
'- peas, and Marco could catch Falco blindfolded. Why, for a moment I wondered if they were just like me -' She stopped, went a bit red on both faces and coughed. 'Anyway,' she went on, 'one day I asked them how they managed to stay on the high wire and Falco said, "Never
ask the tight-rope walker how he keeps his balance. If he stops to think about it, he falls off.“ Although actually -'
'- he said it like this, ”Nev-ah aska tightaroper walkerer ..." because the lads pretended they were from Brindisi, you see, because that sounds foreign and impressive and they thought no one would want to watch acrobats called The Flying Sidney and Frank Cartwright. Good advice, though, wherever it came from.' The hands worked. This was not a lone Miss Level, a bit flustered, but the full Miss Level, all twenty fingers working together. 'Of course,' she said, 'it can be helpful to have the right sort of things in your pocket. I always carry a few sequins -'
'- for the happy memories they bring back,' said Miss Level from the other side of the table, blushing again. She held up the shamble. There were sequins, and a fresh egg in a little bag made of thread, and a chicken bone and many other things hanging or spinning in the threads. Each part of Miss Level put both its hands into the threads and pulled ... The threads took up a pattern. Did the sequins jump from one thread to another? It looked like it. Did the chicken bone pass through the egg? So it seemed. Miss Level peered into it. She said: 'Something's coming The stagecoach left Twoshirts half full and was well out over the plains when one of the passengers sitting on the rooftop tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'Excuse me, did you know there's something trying to catch us up?' he said. 'Bless you, sir,' said the driver, because he hoped for a good tip at the end of the run, 'there's nothing that can catch us up.' Then he heard the screaming in the distance, getting louder. 'Er, I think he means to,' said the passenger as the carter's wagon overtook them. 'Stop! Stop, for pity's sake stopY yelled the carter as he sailed past. But there was no stopping Henry. He'd spent years pulling the carrier's cart around the villages, very slowly, and he'd always had this idea in his big horse head that he was cut out for faster things. He'd plodded along, being overtaken by coaches and carts and three-legged dogs, and now he was having the time of his life. Besides, the cart was a lot lighter than usual, and the road was slightly downhill here. All he was really having to do was gallop fast enough to stay in front. And, finally, he'd actually overtaken the stagecoach. Him, Henry! He only stopped because the stagecoach driver stopped first. Besides, the blood was pumping through Henry now, and there were a couple of mares in the team of horses pulling the coach who he felt he'd really like to get to know - find out when was their day off, what kind of hay they liked, that kind of thing. The carter, white in the face, got down carefully and then lay on the ground and held on tight to the dirt. His one passenger, who looked to the coach driver like some sort of scarecrow, climbed unsteadily down from the back and lurched towards the coach. 'I'm sorry, we're full up,' the driver lied. They weren't full, but there was certainly
no room for a thing that looked like that. 'Ach, and there wuz me willin' to pay wi' gold,' said the creature. 'Gold such as this here,' it added, waving a ragged glove in the air. Suddenly there was plenty of space for an eccentric millionaire. Within a few seconds he was seated inside and, to the annoyance of Henry, the coach set off again. Outside Miss Level's cottage, a broomstick was heading through the trees. A young witch - or, at least, someone dressed as a witch: it never paid to jump to conclusions - was sitting on it side-saddle. She wasn't flying it very well. It jerked sometimes and it was clear the girl was no good at making it turn corners because sometimes she stopped, jumped off and pointed the stick in a new direction by hand. When she reached the garden gate she got off again quickly and tethered the stick to it with string. 'Nicely done, Petulia!' said Miss Level, clapping with all four hands. 'You're getting quite good!'
'Um, thank you, Miss Level,' said the girl, bowing. She stayed bowed, and said, 'Um, oh dear Half of Miss Level stepped forward. 'Oh, I can see the problem,' she said, peering down. 'Your amulet with the little owls on it is tangled up with your necklace of silver bats and they've both got caught around a button. Just hold still, will you?'
'Um, I've come to see if your new girl would like come to the sabbat tonight,' said the bent Petulia, her voice a bit muffled. Tiffany couldn't help noticing that Petulia had jewellery everywhere; later she found that it was hard to be around Petulia for any length of time without having to unhook a bangle from a necklace or, once, an earring from an ankle bracelet (nobody ever found out how that one happened). Petulia couldn't resist occult jewellery. Most of the stuff was to magically protect her from things, but she hadn't found anything to protect her from looking a bit silly. She was short and plump and permanently red-faced and slightly worried. 'Sabbat? Oh, one of your meetings,' said Miss Level. 'That would be nice, wouldn't it, Tiffany?'
'Yes?' said Tiffany, not quite sure yet. 'Some of the girls meet up in the woods in the evenings,' said Miss Level. 'For some reason the craft is getting popular again. That's very welcome, of course.' She said it as if she wasn't quite sure. Then she added: 'Petulia here works for Old Mother Blackcap, over in Sidling Without. Specializes in animals. Very good woman with pig diseases. I mean, with pigs that've got diseases, I don't mean she has pig diseases. It'll be nice for you to have friends here. Why don't you go? There, everything's unhooked.' Petulia stood up and gave Tiffany a worried smile. 'Um, Petulia Gristle,' she said, holding out a hand. 'Tiffany Aching,' said Tiffany, shaking it gingerly in case the sound of all the bangles
and bracelets jangling together deafened everyone. 'Um, you can ride with me on the broomstick, if you like,' said Petulia. 'I'd rather not,' said Tiffany. Petulia looked relieved, but said: 'Um, do you want to get dressed?' Tiffany looked down at her green dress. 'I am.'
'Um, don't you have any gems or beads or amulets or anything?'
'No, sorry,' said Tiffany. 'Um, you must at least have a shamble, surely?'
'Um, can't get the hang of them,' said Tiffany. She hadn't meant the 'um', but around Petulia it was catching. 'Um . . . a black dress, perhaps?'
'I don't really like black. I prefer blue or green,' said Tiffany. 'Um 'Um. Oh well, you're just starting,' said Petulia generously. 'I've been Crafty for three years.' Tiffany looked desperately at the nearest half of Miss Level. 'In the craft,' said Miss Level helpfully. 'Witchcraft.'
'Oh.' Tiffany knew she was being very unfriendly, and Petulia with her pink face was clearly a nice person, but she felt awkward in front of her and she couldn't work out why. It was stupid, she knew. She could do with a friend. Miss Level was nice enough, and she managed to get along with Oswald, but it would be good to have someone around her own age to talk to. 'Well, I'd love to come,' she said. 'I know I've got a lot to learn.' The passengers inside the stagecoach had paid good money to be inside on the soft seats and out of the wind and the dust and, therefore, it was odd that so many got out at the next stop and went and sat on the roof. The few who didn't want to ride up there or couldn't manage the climb sat huddled together on the seat opposite, watching the new traveller like a group of rabbits watching a fox and trying not to breathe. The problem wasn't that he smelled of ferrets. Well, that was a problem, but compared to the big problem it wasn't much of one. He talked to himself. That is, bits of him talked to other bits of him. All the time. 'Ah, it's fair hoggin' doon here. Ah'm tellin ye! Ah'rn sure it's my turn to be up inna heidl'