Terry Pratchett: I Shall Wear Midnight

But Tiffany concentrated on the necklace. People wore jewellery to show you something. It always had a meaning, if you concentrated.

‘All right, all right,’ she said, ‘I have just one question: I’m not here to bury you, am I?’

‘My word, you are quick,’ said the woman. ‘You have immediately devised a remarkably interesting narrative and instantly guessed who I am.’ She laughed. The voice was younger than her face. ‘No, Tiffany. Interestingly macabre though your suggestion is, the answer is no. I remember Granny Weatherwax telling me that when you get right down to it, the world is all about stories, and Tiffany Aching is extremely good at endings.’

‘I am?’

‘Oh yes. Classic endings to a romantic story are a wedding or a legacy, and you have been the engineer for one of each. Well done.’

‘You are me, right?’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s what the “you have to help yourself” business was about, yes?’

The older Tiffany grinned, and Tiffany could not help noticing that it was a very nice grin. ‘As a matter of fact, I only interfered in a few small ways. Like, for example, making certain the wind really did blow very hard for you … although, as I recall, a certain colony of little men added their own special excitement to the venture. I’m never quite certain if my memory is good or bad. That’s time travel for you.’

‘You can travel in time?’

‘With some help from our friend Eskarina. And only as a shadow and a whisper. It’s a bit like the don’t-see-me thing that I … that we – You have to persuade time not to take any notice.’

‘But why did you want to talk to me?’ said Tiffany.

‘Well, the infuriating answer is that I remembered that I did,’ said old Tiffany. ‘Sorry, that’s time travel again. But I think I wanted to tell you that it all works out, more or less. It all falls into place. You’ve taken the first step.’

‘There’s a second step?’ said Tiffany.

‘No; there’s another first step. Every step is a first step if it’s a step in the right direction.’

‘But hold on,’ said Tiffany. ‘Won’t I be you one day? And then will I talk to me now, as it were?’

‘Yes, but the you that you talk to won’t exactly be you. I’m very sorry about this, but I am having to talk about time travel in a language that can’t really account for it. But in short, Tiffany, according to the elasticated string theory, throughout the rest of time, somewhere an old Tiffany will be talking to a young Tiffany, and the fascinating thing is that every time they do they will be a little bit different. When you meet your younger self, you will tell her what you think she needs to know.’

‘But I have got a question,’ said Tiffany. ‘And it’s one I want to know the answer to.’

‘Well, do be quick,’ said old Tiffany, ‘The elasticated string thingy, or whatever it is that Eskarina uses, does not allow us very much time.’

‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘can you at least tell me. Do I ever get—?’

Old Tiffany faded, smiling into nothingness, but Tiffany heard one word. It sounded like, ‘ Listen .’

And then she was in the hall again, as if she’d never left it at all, and people were cheering and there seemed to be Feegles everywhere. And Preston was by her side. It was as if ice had suddenly melted. But when she got her balance back, and stopped asking herself what had just happened, had really happened, Tiffany looked for the other witches, and saw that they were talking amongst themselves, like judges adding up a score.

The huddle broke up, and they came towards her purposefully, led by Granny Weatherwax. When they reached her they bowed and raised their hats, which is a mark of respect in the craft.

Granny Weatherwax looked at her sternly. ‘I see you have burned your hand, Tiffany.’

Tiffany looked down. ‘I didn’t notice,’ she said. ‘Can I ask you now, Granny? Would you all have killed me?’ She saw the expressions of the other witches change.

Granny Weatherwax looked around and paused for a moment.

‘Let us say, young woman, we would have done our best not to. But all in all, Tiffany, it seems to us that you’ve done a woman’s job today. The place where we looks for witches is at the centre of things. Well, we looks around here and we see that you is so central that this steading spins on you. You are your own mistress, nevertheless, and if you don’t start training somebody, that will be a waste. We leave this steading in the best of hands.’

The witches clapped, and some of the other guests joined in, even though they did not understand what those few sentences had meant. What they did recognize, however, was that these were mostly elderly, experienced, important and scary witches. And they were paying their respect to Tiffany Aching, one of them , their witch. And she was a very important witch, and so the Chalk had to be a very important place. Of course, they had known that all along but it was nice to have it acknowledged. They stood a little straighter and felt proud.

Mrs Proust removed her hat again, and said, ‘Please don’t be afraid to come back to the city again, Miss Aching. I think I can promise you a thirty per cent discount on all Boffo products, except for perishables or consumables, an offer not to be sneezed at.’

The group of witches raised their hats in unison again and walked back into the crowd.

‘You know all that just now was organizing people’s lives for them,’ said Preston behind her, but as she spun round he backed away laughing and added, ‘But in a good way. You are the witch , Tiffany. You are the witch! ’

And people drank a toast and there was more food, and more dancing and laughter and friendship and tiredness, and at midnight Tiffany Aching lay alone on her broomstick high above the chalk hills and looked up at the universe, and then down on the bit of it that belonged to her. She was the witch, floating high over everything but, it must be said, with the leather strap carefully buckled.

The stick rose and fell gently as warm breezes took it and as tiredness and darkness took her, she stretched out her arms to the dark and, just for a moment, as the world turned, Tiffany Aching wore midnight.

She didn’t come down until the sun was crusting the horizon with light. And she woke up to birdsong. All across the Chalk the larks were rising as they did every morning in a symphony of liquid sound. They did indeed sing melodious. They streamed up past the stick, paying it no attention at all, and Tiffany listened, entranced, until the last bird had got lost in the brilliant sky.

She landed, made breakfast for an old lady who was bed-bound, fed her cat, and went to see how Trivial Boxer’s 30broken leg was doing. She was stopped halfway there by the neighbour of old Miss Swivel, who had apparently become suddenly unable to walk overnight, but Tiffany was fortunately able to point out that she had regrettably put both feet through one knicker leg.

Then she went down into the castle to see what else needed doing. After all, she was the witch.

30 Mr and Mrs Boxer had been slightly more educated than was good for them, and thought that ‘trivial’ was a good name for their third child.

Epilogue

MIDNIGHT BY DAY

IT WAS THE scouring fair again, the same noisy hurdy-gurdy, the bobbing for frogs, the fortune-telling, the laughter, the pick-pockets (though never of a witch’s pocket), but this year, by common consent, no cheese rolling. Tiffany walked through it all, nodding at people she knew, which was everybody, and generally enjoying the sunshine. Had it been a year? So much had happened, it all swam together, like the sounds of the fair.