Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

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.

Granny 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!"

"Whut? Crivens!" Rob scurried back to the end of the word and plonked down a small e.

"Twelve!"

"Ye can count all ye want tae, mistress," said Rob, flinging down the pencil, "but that's all the marmalade there is!" This got another cheer.

"An heroic effort, Mr. Anybody," said Granny. "The first thing a hero must conquer is his fear, and when it comes to fightin', the Nac Mac Feegles don't know the meanin' of the word."

"Aye, true enough," Rob grunted. "We dinna ken the meanin' o' thousands o' wurds!"

"Can you fight a dragon?"

"Oh, aye, bring it on!" He was still angry about the marmalade.

"Run up a high mountain?"

"Nae problemo!"

"Read a book to the very end to save your big wee hag?"

"Oh, aye." Rob stopped. He looked cornered. He licked his lips. "How many o' them pagey things would that be?" he said hoarsely.

"Hundreds," said Granny.

"Wi' wurds on both sides?"

"Yes, indeed. In quite small writing!"

Rob crouched. He always did that when he was cornered, the better to come up fighting. The mass of Feegles held their breath.

"I'll do it!" he announced grimly, clenching his fists.

"Good," said Granny. "Of course you would. That would be heroic—for you. But someone must go into the Underworld to find the real Summer Lady. That is a Story. It has happened before. It works. And he must do it in fear and terror like a real Hero should, because a lot of the monsters he must overcome are the ones in his head, the ones he brings in with him. It's time for spring, and winter and its snow is still with us, so you must find him now. You've got to find him and set his feet on the path. The Path That Goes Down, Rob Anybody."