Wintersmith (16 page)

“A Good Smoke in Any Weather?” he said to Tiffany.

“What?”

“It’s all he can say!” said her Third Thoughts, grabbing the wheel. “Remember? That’s what he says on the label!”

The Jolly Sailor pushed her away gently. “A Good Smoke in Any Weather,” he said soothingly. “In Any Weather.”

“Look, we only want to—” Tiffany began, but her Third Thoughts, without a word, put a hand on her head and turned her around.

Something was coming out of the fog.

It was an iceberg, a large one, at least five times as high as the ship, as majestic as a swan. It was so big that it was causing its own weather. It seemed to be moving slowly; there was white water around its base. Snow fell around it. Streamers of fog trailed behind it.

The Jolly Sailor’s pipe dropped out of his mouth as he stared.

“A Good Smoke!” he swore.

The iceberg was Tiffany. It was a Tiffany hundreds of feet high, formed of glittering green ice, but it was still a Tiffany. There were seabirds perched on her head.

“It can’t be the Wintersmith doing this!” said Tiffany. “I threw the horse away!” She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted: “I THREW THE HORSE AWAY!”

Her voice echoed off the looming ice figure. A few birds took off from the huge cold head, screaming. Behind Tiffany, the ship’s wheel spun. The Jolly Sailor stamped a foot and pointed to the white sails above them.

“A Good Smoke in Any Weather!” he commanded.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean!” said Tiffany desperately.

The man pointed to the sails and made frantic pulling motions with his hands.

“A Good Smoke!”

“Sorry, I just can’t understand you!”

The sailor snorted and ran off toward a rope, which he hauled on in a great hurry.

“It’s gotten weird,” said her Third Thoughts quietly.

“Well, yes, I should think a huge iceberg shaped like me is a—”

“No, that’s just strange. This is weird,” said her Third Thoughts. “We’ve got passengers. Look.” She pointed.

Down on the main deck there was a row of hatches with big iron grids on them; Tiffany hadn’t noticed them before.

Hands, hundreds of them, pale as roots under a log, groping and waving, were thrusting through the grids.

“Passengers?” Tiffany whispered in horror. “Oh, no…”

And then the screaming started. It would have been better, but not a lot better, if it had been cries of “Help! and “Save us,” but instead it was just screaming and wailing, just the sounds of people in pain and fear—

No!

“Come back inside my head,” she said grimly. “It’s too distracting to have you running around outside. Right now.”

“I’ll walk in from behind you,” said her Third Thoughts. “Then it won’t seem so—”

Tiffany felt a twinge of pain, and a change in her mind, and thought: Well, I suppose it could have been a lot messier.

Okay. Let me think. Let all of me think.

She watched the desperate hands, waving like weeds underwater, and thought: I’m in something like a dream, but I don’t think it’s mine. I’m on a ship, and we’re going to get killed by an iceberg that’s a giant figure of me.

I think I liked it better when I was snowflakes….

Whose dream is this?

“What is this about, Wintersmith?” she asked, and her Third Thoughts, back where they should be, commented: It’s amazing, you can even see your own breath in the air.

“Is this a warning?” Tiffany shouted. “What do you want?”

You for my bride
, said the Wintersmith. The words just arrived in her memory.

Tiffany’s shoulders sank.

You know this isn’t real, said her Third Thoughts. But it may be the shadow of something real….

I shouldn’t have let Granny Weatherwax send Rob Anybody away like that—

“Crivens! Shiver me timber!” shouted a voice behind her. And then there was the usual clamor:

“It’s ‘timbers,’ ye dafty!”

“Aye? But I can only find one!”

“Splice the big plank! Daft Wullie’s just walked intae the watter!”

“The big puddin’! I told him, just the one eye patch!”

“With a yo hoho and a ho yoyo—”

Feegles erupted from the cabin behind Tiffany, and Rob Anybody stopped in front of her as the rest streamed past. He saluted.

“Sorry we’re a wee bittie late, but we had to find the black patches,” he said. “There’s sich a thing as style, ye ken.”

Tiffany was speechless, but only for a moment. She pointed.

“We’ve got to stop this ship from hitting that iceberg!”

“Just that? Nae problemo!” Rob looked past her to the looming ice giantess and grinned. “He’s got yer nose just right, eh?”

“Just stop it! Please?” Tiffany pleaded.

“Aye-aye! C’mon, lads!”

Watching the Feegles working was like watching ants, except that ants didn’t wear kilts and shout “Crivens!” all the time. Maybe it was because they could make one word do so much work that they seemed to have no problem at all with the Jolly Sailor’s orders. They swarmed across the deck. Mysterious ropes were pulled. Sails moved and billowed to a chorus of “A Good Smoke!” and “Crivens!”

Now the Wintersmith wants to marry me, Tiffany thought. Oh, dear.

She’d sometimes wondered if she’d get married one day, but she was definite that now was too soon for “one day.” Yes, her mother had been married when she was still fourteen, but that was the sort of thing that happened in the olden days. There were a lot of things to be done before Tiffany ever got married, she was very clear about that.

Besides, when you thought about it…yuk. He wasn’t even a person. He’d be too—

Thud!
went the wind in the sails. The ship creaked and leaned over, and everyone was shouting at her. Mostly they shouted, “The wheel! Grab the wheel right noo!” although there was also a desperate “A Good Smoke in Any Weather!” in there too.

Tiffany turned to see the wheel spinning in a blur. She made a snatch at it and got thumped across the fingers by the spokes, but there was a length of rope coiled nearby and she managed to lasso the wheel with a loop and jerk it to a halt without sliding along the deck too much. Then she grabbed the wheel and tried to turn it the other way. It was like pushing a house, but it did move, very slowly at first and then faster as she put her back into it.

The ship came around. She could feel it moving, beginning to head a little bit away from the iceberg, not directly for it. Good!
Things were going right at last! She spun the wheel some more, and now the huge cold wall was sliding past, filling the air with mist. Everything was going to be all right after—

The ship hit the iceberg.

It started with a simple
crack!
as a spar caught on an outcrop, but then others smashed as the ship scraped along the side of the ice. Then there were some sharp splintering noises as the ship ground onward, and bits of plank shot up on columns of foaming water. The top of a mast broke off, dragging sails and rigging with it. A lump of ice smashed onto the deck a few feet away from Tiffany, showering her with needles.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go!” she panted, hanging on to the wheel.

Marry me
, said the Wintersmith.

Churning white water roared across the foundering ship. Tiffany held on for a moment longer; then the cold surf covered her…except that it was suddenly not cold, but warm. But it was still stopping her from breathing. In the darkness she tried to fight her way to the surface, until the blackness was suddenly pulled aside, her eyes filled with light, and a voice said: “I’m sure these mattresses are far too soft, but you can’t tell Mrs. Ogg a thing.”

Tiffany blinked. She was in bed, and a skinny woman with worried hair and a rather red nose was standing by it.

“You were tossing and turning like a mad thing,” the woman said, putting a steaming mug on the small table by the bed. “One day someone will suffikate, mark my words.”

Tiffany blinked again. I’m supposed to think: Oh, it was just a dream. But it wasn’t just a dream. Not my dream.

“What time is it?” she managed.

“About seven,” said the woman.

“Seven!” Tiffany pushed the sheets back. “I’ve got to get up! Mrs. Ogg will be wanting her breakfast!”

“I shouldn’t think so. I took it to her in bed not ten minutes ago,” said the woman, giving Tiffany a Look. “And I’m off home.” She sniffed. “Drink your tea before it gets cold.” And with that she marched toward the door.

“Is Mrs. Ogg ill?” asked Tiffany, looking everywhere for her socks. She’d never heard of anyone who wasn’t really old or very ill having a meal in bed.

“Ill? I don’t think she’s had a day’s illness in her life,” said the woman, managing to suggest that in her opinion this was unfair. She shut the door.

Even the bedroom floor was smooth—not made smooth by centuries of feet that had worn down the planks and taken all the splinters out, but because someone had sanded and varnished it. Tiffany’s bare feet stuck to it slightly. There was no dust to be seen, no spiderwebs anywhere. The room was bright and fresh and exactly unlike any room in a witch’s cottage ought to be.

“I’m going to get dressed,” she said to the air. “Are there any Feegles in here?”

“Ach, no,” said a voice from under the bed.

There was some frantic whispering and the voice said: “That is tae say, there’s hardly any o’ us here at a’.”

“Then shut your eyes,” said Tiffany.

She got dressed, taking occasional sips of the tea as she did so. Tea brought to your bedside when you weren’t ill? That sort of thing happened to kings and queens!

And then she noticed the bruise on her fingers. It didn’t hurt at all, but the skin was blue where the ship’s wheel had hit it. Right…

“Feegles?” she said.

“Crivens, ye’ll nae be foolin’ us a second time,” said the voice from under the bed.

“Get out here where I can see you, Daft Wullie!” Tiffany commanded.

“It’s real hagglin’, miss, the way ye always ken it’s me.”

After some more urgent whispering, Daft Wullie—for it was indeed he—trooped out with two more Feegles and Horace the cheese.

Tiffany stared. All right, he was a blue cheese, so he was about the same color as a Feegle. And he acted like a Feegle, no doubt about that. Why, though, had he got a grubby strip of Feegle tartan around him?

“He kinda found us,” said Daft Wullie, putting his arm around as much of Horace as was possible. “Can I keep him? He understands evera word I say!”

“That’s amazing, because I don’t,” said Tiffany. “Look, were we in a shipwreck last night?”

“Oh, aye. Sorta.”

“Sort of? Was it real or wasn’t it?”

“Oh, aye,” said the Feegle nervously.

“Which?” Tiffany insisted.

“Kinda real, and kinda not real, in a real unreal sorta way,” said Daft Wullie, squirming a bit. “I don’t have the knowin’ o’ the right wurdies….”

“Are all you Feegles okay?”

“Oh aye, miss,” said Daft Wullie, brightening up. “Nae problemo. It wuz only a dream ship on a dream sea, after a’.”

“And a dream iceberg?” said Tiffany.

“Ach, no. The iceberg was real, mistress.”

“I thought so! Are you sure?”

“Aye. We’re good at the knowin’ o’ stuff like that,” said Daft Wullie. “That’s so, eh, lads?” The other two Feegles, in total awe of being in the presence of the big wee hag without the safety of hundreds of brothers around them, nodded at Tiffany and then tried to shuffle behind each other.

“A real iceberg shaped like me is floating around on the sea?” said Tiffany in horror. “Getting in the way of shipping?”

“Aye. Could be,” said Daft Wullie.

“I’m going to get into so much trouble!” said Tiffany, standing up.

There was a snapping noise, and the end of one of the floorboards leaped out of the floor and hung there, bouncing up and down with a rocking-chair noise. It had ripped out two long nails.

“And now this,” said Tiffany weakly. But the Feegles and Horace had vanished.

Behind Tiffany someone laughed, although it was maybe more of a chuckle, deep and real and with just a hint that maybe someone had told a rude joke.

“Those little devils can’t half run, eh?” said Nanny Ogg, ambling into the room. “Now then, Tiff, I wants you to turn around slowly and go and sit on your bed with your feet off the ground. Can you do that?”

“Of course, Mrs. Ogg,” said Tiffany. “Look, I’m sorry about—”

“Poo, what’s a floorboard more or less?” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m much more worried about Esme Weatherwax. She said there might be something like this! Ha, she was right and Miss Tick was wrong! There’ll be no living with her after this! She’ll have her nose so far in the air, her feet won’t touch the ground!”

With a
spioioioiiing!
sound, another floorboard sprang up.

“And it might be a good idea if yours didn’t either, miss,” Nanny
Ogg added. “I’ll be back in half a tick.”

That turned out to be the same length of time as twenty-seven seconds, when Nanny returned carrying a pair of violently pink slippers with bunny rabbits on them.

“My second-best pair,” she said as, behind her, a board went
plunk!
and hurled four big nails into the far wall. The boards that had already sprung up were beginning to sprout what looked a lot like leaves. They were thin and weedy, but leaves were what they were.

“Is it me doing this?” asked Tiffany nervously.

“I daresay Esme will want to tell you all about it herself,” said Nanny, helping Tiffany’s feet into the slippers. “But what you’ve got here, miss, is a bad case of Ped Fecundis.” In the back of Tiffany’s memory Dr. Sensibility Bustle, D. M. Phil., B. El L., stirred in his sleep for a moment and took care of the translation.

“Fertile Feet?” said Tiffany.

“Well done! I didn’t expect anything to happen to floorboards, mind you, but it makes sense, when you think about it. They’re made of wood, after all, so they’re tryin’ to grow.”

“Mrs. Ogg?” said Tiffany.

“Yes?”

“Please? I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about! I keep my feet very clean! And I think I’m a giant iceberg!”