A Hat Full Of Sky

The woman hesitated, while behind her Doris Trample crawled around on hands and knees trying to urge her mice back into their box. One of them was having hysterics.

‘And now, perhaps… some lady would like to, er… take the, er… stage?’ said the mistress of ceremonies, as brightly as a glass ball about to shatter. ‘Anyone?’

There was stillness, and silence.

‘Don’t be shy, ladies!’ The voice of the mistress of ceremonies was getting more strained by the second. It’s no fun trying to organize a field full of born organizers. ‘Modesty does not become us! Anyone?’

Tiffany felt the pointy hats turning, some towards her, some towards Granny Weatherwax. Away across the few yards of grass, Granny reached up and brushed someone’s hand from her shoulder, sharply, without breaking eye contact with Tiffany. And we’re not wearing hats, thought Tiffany. You gave me a virtual hat once, Granny Weatherwax, and I thank you for it. But I don’t need it today. Today, I know I’m a witch.

‘Oh, come now, ladies!’ said the mistress of ceremonies, now almost frantic. ‘This is the Trials! A place for friendly and instructive contestation in an atmosphere of fraternity and goodwill! Surely some lady… or young lady, perhaps… ?

Tiffany smiled. It should be ‘sorority’, not ‘fraternity’. We’re sisters, mistress, not brothers.

‘Come on. Tiffany!’ Dimity urged. ‘They know you’re good!’

Tiffany shook her head.

‘Oh, well, that’s it,’ said Annagramma, rolling her eyes. ‘The old baggage has messed with the girl’s head, as usual–’

‘I don’t know who’s messed with whose head,’ snapped Petulia, rolling up her sleeves. ‘But I’m going to do the pig trick.’ She got to her feet and there was a general stir in the crowd.

‘Oh, I see it’s going to be—Oh, it’s you, Petulia,’ said the mistress of ceremonies, slightly disappointed.

‘Yes, Miss Casement, and I intend to perform the pig trick,’ said Petulia loudly.

‘But, er, you don’t seem to have brought a pig with you,’ said Miss Casement, taken aback.

‘Yes, Miss Casement. I shall perform the pig trick… without a pig!’

This caused a sensation, and cries of ‘Impossible!’ and ‘There are children here, you know!’

Miss Casement looked around for assistance and found none. ‘Oh well,’ she said, helpless. ‘If you are sure, dear…’

‘Yes. I am. I shall use… a sausage!’ said Petulia, producing one from a pocket and holding it up. There was another sensation.

Tiffany didn’t see the trick. Nor did Granny Weatherwax. Their gaze was like an iron bar, and even Miss Casement instinctively didn’t step into it.

But Tiffany heard the squeal, and the gasp of amazement, and then the thunder of applause. People would have applauded anything at that point, in the same way that pent-up water would take any route out of a dam.

And then witches got up. Miss Level juggled balls that stopped and reversed direction in mid-air. A middle-aged witch demonstrated a new way to stop people choking, which doesn’t even sound magical until you understand that a way of turning nearly-dead people into fully-alive people is worth a dozen spells that just go twing! And other women and girls came up one at a time, with big tricks and handy tips and things that went wheee! or stopped toothache or, in one case, exploded—

–and then there were no more entries.

Miss Casement walked back into the centre of the field, almost drunk with relief that there had been a Trials, and made one final invitation to any ladies ‘or, indeed, young ladies’ who might like to come forward.

There was a silence so thick you could have stuck pins in it.

And then she said: ‘Oh, well… in that case, I declare the Trials well and truly closed. Tea will be in the big tent!’

Tiffany and Granny stood up at the same time, to the second, and bowed to one another. Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede towards the teas. It was interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a particularly good prophet.

Petulia was surrounded by other young witches. The pig trick had gone down very well. Tiffany queued up to give her a hug.

‘But you could have won!’ said Petulia, red in the face with happiness and worry.

‘That doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t,’ said Tiffany.

‘You gave it away,’ said a sharp voice behind her. ‘You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away. How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie? ’

‘Now you listen to me, Annagramma,’ Petulia began, pointing a furious finger.

Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl’s arm. Then she turned and smiled so happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing.

What she wanted to say was: ‘Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And there’re silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize was? No, you wouldn’t. Oh, there were judges, but they didn’t count, not for the big prize. There is—There was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and Lightning and they moved so fast they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn’t some silly cup or belt but to see her take her pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say “That’ll do” because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you’d told him he had to challenge her, he’d cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he’d sooner spit the sun dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her you’d take away from yourself. You don’t understand that, do you? But it’s the heart and soul and centre of it! The soul… and… centre!’

But it would be wasted, so what she said was: ‘Oh, just shut up, Annagramma. Let’s see if there’s any buns left, shall we?’

Overhead, a buzzard screamed. She looked up.

The bird turned on the wind and, racing through the air as it began the long glide, headed back towards home.

They were always there.

Beside her cauldron, Jeannie opened her eyes.

‘He’s comin’ hame!’ she said, scrambling to her feet. She waved a hand urgently at the watching Feegles. ‘Don’t ye just stand there gawping!’ she commanded. ‘Catch some rabbits to roast! Build up the fire! Boil up a load o’ water, ‘cos I’m takin’ a bath! Look at this place, ‘tis like a midden! Get it cleaned up! I want it sparkling for the Big Man! Go an’ steal some Special Sheep Liniment! Cut some green boughs, holly or yew, mebbe! Shine up the golden plates! The place must sparkle! What’re ye all standin’ there for?’

‘Er, what did ye want us to do first, Kelda,’ said a Feegle nervously.

‘All of it!’

In her chamber they filled the kelda’s soup-bowl bath and she scrubbed, using one of Tiffany’s old toothbrushes, while outside there were the sounds of Feegles working hard at cross-purposes. The smell of roasting rabbit began to fill the mound.