What is, is.
What happens, happens.
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Granny Aching hardly ever came down off the hills, except
for Hogswatch and the early lambing. You seldom saw her
in the village unless the peddler who sold Jolly Sailor
tobacco was late on his rounds, in which case she'd be
down in a hurry and a flurry of greasy black skirts to
cadge a pipeful off one of the old men.
But there wasn't a person on the Chalk, from the Baron
down, who didn't owe something to Granny. And what they
owed to her, she made them pay to others. She always knew
who was short a favour or two.
"She made them help one another," she said. "She made
them help themselves."
In the silence that followed, Tiffany heard the birds
singing by the road. You got a lot of birds here, but
she missed the high scream of the buzzards.
Miss Level sighed. "Not many of us are that good,"
she said. "If I was that good, we wouldn't be going
to visit old Mr Weavall again."
Tiffany said "Oh dear" inside.
Most days included a visit to Mr Weavall. Tiffany
dreaded them.
Mr Weavall's skin was paper-thin and yellowish. He
was always in the same old armchair, in a tiny room
in a small cottage that smelled of old potatoes and
was surrounded by a more or less overgrown garden.
He'd be sitting bolt upright, his hands on two
walking sticks, wearing a suit that was shiny with
age, staring at the door.
"I make sure he has something hot every day, although
he eats like a bird," Miss Level said. "And old Widow
Tussy down the lane does his laundry, such as it is.
He's ninety-one, you know."
Mr Weavall had very bright eyes and chatted away at them
as they tidied up the room. The first time Tiffany had
met him, he'd called her Mary. Sometimes he still did
so. And he'd grabbed her wrist with surprising force
as she walked past. ... It had been a real shock, that
claw of a hand suddenly gripping her. You could see
blue veins under the skin.
"I shan't be a burden on anyone," he'd said urgently.
"I got money put by for when I go. My boy, Toby, won't
have nothin' to worry about. I can pay my way! I want
the proper funeral show, right? With the black horses
and the plumes and the mutes and a knife-and-fork tea
for everyone afterward. I've written it all down, fair
and square. Check in my box to make sure, will you?
That witch woman's always hanging around here!"
Tiffany had given Miss Level a despairing look. She'd
nodded and pointed to an old wooden box tucked under Mr
Weavall's chair.
It had turned out to be full of coins, mostly copper,
but there were quite a few silver ones. It looked like
a fortune, and for a moment Tiffany'd wished she had as
much money.
"There's a lot of coins in here, Mr Weavall," she'd said.
Mr Weavall relaxed. "Ah, that's right", he'd said.
"Then I won't be a burden."
Today Mr Weavall was asleep when they called on him,
snoring with his mouth open and his yellow-brown teeth
showing. But he awoke in an instant, stared at them,
and then said, "My boy Toby's coming to see I Sat'day."
"That's nice, Mr Weavall," said Miss Level, plumping up
his cushions. "We'll get the place nice and tidy."
"He's done very well for hisself, you know," said Mr
Weavall proudly. "Got a job indoors with no heavy
lifting. He said he'll see I all right in my old age,
but I told him, I *told* him I'd pay my way when I go,
the whole thing, the salt and earth and tuppence for
the ferryman, too!"
Today Miss Level gave him a shave. His hands shook too
much for him to do it himself. (Yesterday she'd cut his
toenails, because he couldn't quite reach them; it was
not a safe spectator sport, especially when one smashed
a window-pane.)
"It's all in the box under my chair," he said as Tiffany
nervously wiped the last hits of foam off him. "Just
check for me, will you, Mary?"
Oh, yes. That was the ceremony, every day.
There was the box, and there was the money. He asked
every time. There was always the same amount of money.
"Tuppence for the ferryman?" said Tiffany, as they
walked home.
"Mr Weavall remembers all the old funeral traditions,"
said Miss Level. "Some people believe that when you
die, you cross the River of Death and have to pay the
ferryman. People don't seem to worry about that these
days. Perhaps there's a bridge now."
"He's alway talking about ... his funeral."
"Well, it's important to him. Sometimes old people are
like that. They'd hate people to think that they were
too poor to pay for their own funeral. Mr Weavall'd die
of shame if he couldn't pay for his own funeral."
"It's very sad, him being all alone like that. Something
should be done for him," said Tiffany.
"Yes. We're doing it," said Miss Level. "And Mrs Tussy
keeps a friendly eye on him."
"Yes, but it shouldn't have to be us, should it?"
"Who should it *have* to be?" said Miss Level.
"Well, what about this son he's always talking about?"
said Tiffany.
"Young Toby? He's been dead for fifteen years. And
Mary was the old man's daughter, she died quite young.
Mr Weavall is very shortsighted, but he sees better in
the past."
Tiffany didn't know what to reply except "It shouldn't
be like this."
"There isn't a way things *should* be. There's just what
happens, and what we do."
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Tiffany Aching: witch-in-training, age 11
Miss Perspicacia Level: witch
I did not tell you this before, to remind you that being
Twelve is like sneaking into a theatre where the film's
been running for an hour.
You might perhaps, knowing more of the Dramatis Personae,
reread the Scene.
This extended quote is taken from < A Hatful of Sky >,
by Terry Pratchett; best to start with its predecessor,
< The Wee Free Men >.
Ronin
ns: I shall be grateful to anyone who can tell what became
of Fred, the Elf Boy, who was rather sickly as of the end of
the Twentieth Century; and of Nils, whom Fred befriended,
who came home from school one day to find the front door
locked and his mother gone, and later wrote, what do you
*think* I did to survive?
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