Terry Pratchett - I Shall Wear Midnight

‘Because you are the Baron,’ said Tiffany simply, ‘and boys with swords rescue girls. That’s how the stories go. That’s how stories work. No one really wanted to think the other way round.’

‘Didn’t you mind?’ He wasn’t taking his eyes off her, and he hardly seemed to blink. There was no point in lying.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A bit.’

‘Was it a reasonably large bit?’

‘I would say so, yes. But then I went off to learn to be a witch, and it didn’t seem to matter any more. That’s the truth of it, sir. Excuse me, sir, who told you this?’

‘Your father,’ said the Baron. ‘And I am grateful to him for telling me. He came to see me yesterday, to pay his respects, seeing as I am, as you know, dying. Which is, in fact, another truth. And don’t you dare tell him off, young lady, witch or otherwise. Promise me?’

Tiffany knew that the long lie had hurt her father. She’d never really worried about it, but it had worried him.

‘Yes, sir, I promise.’

The Baron was silent for a moment, staring at her. ‘You know, Miss Tiffany Aching, who is, by regular repetition, a witch, I am at a time when my eyes are cloudy, but my mind, somehow, sees further than you think. But perhaps it is not too late for me to make amends. Under my bed is a chest bound with brass. Go and open it. Go on! Do that now.’

Tiffany pulled out the chest, which felt as if it was full of lead.

‘You will find some leather bags,’ said the old man behind her.

‘Take one of them out. It will contain fifteen dollars.’ The Baron coughed. ‘Thank you for saving my son.’

‘Look, I can’t take—’ Tiffany began, but the Baron banged his stick on the floor.

‘Shut up and listen, please, Miss Tiffany Aching. When you fought the Queen of the Elves, you were not a witch and therefore the tradition against witches taking money does not apply,’ he said sharply, his eyes glittering like sapphires. ‘With regard to your personal services to myself, I believe you have been paid in food and clean used linen, second-hand footwear and firewood. I trust my housekeeper has been generous? I told her not to stint.’

‘What? Oh, oh yes, sir.’ And that was true enough. Witches lived in a world of second-hand clothes, old sheets (good for making bandages), boots with some life left in them and, of course, hand-me-downs, hand-me-outs, hands-me-ups, hand-me-rounds and hand-me-overs. In such a world, the pickings to be had from a working castle were like being given the key to a mint. As for the money … she turned the leather bag over and over in her hands. It was very heavy.

‘What do you do with all that stuff, Miss Tiffany Aching?’

‘What?’ she said absentmindedly, still looking at the bag. ‘Oh, er, trade it, pass it on to people who need it … that sort of thing.’

‘Miss Tiffany Aching, you are suddenly vague. I believe that you were engrossed in thinking that fifteen dollars isn’t much, is it, for saving the life of the Baron’s son?’

‘No!’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then, shall I?’

‘ You will take it from me as a no, sir! I am your witch! ’ She glared at him, panting. ‘And I am trying to balance a rather difficult ball of pain, sir.’

‘Ah, Granny Aching’s granddaughter. I humbly beg your forgiveness, as I occasionally should have asked for hers. But nevertheless, will you please do me the favour and honour of taking that bag, Miss Tiffany Aching, and putting its contents to such use as you may determine in memory of me. I’m sure it’s more money than you have ever seen before.’

‘I don’t often see any money at all,’ she protested, stunned by this.

The Baron banged his stick on the floor again, as if applauding. ‘I doubt very much if you have ever seen money like this,’ he said merrily. ‘You see, although there are fifteen dollars in the bag, they are not the dollars that you are used to, or would be if you were used to them at all. They are old dollars, from before they started mucking about with the currency. The modern dollar is mostly brass, in my opinion, and contains as much gold as sea water. These, however, are the real shilling, if you’ll excuse my little joke.’

Tiffany excused his little joke, because she didn’t get it. He smiled at her puzzlement. ‘In short, Miss Tiffany Aching, if you take these coins to the right dealer, he should pay you, oh, I would estimate somewhere in the region of five thousand Ankh-Morpork dollars. I don’t know what that would be in terms of old boots, but quite possibly it could buy you an old boot the size of this castle.’

And Tiffany thought: I can’t take this. Apart from anything else the bag had become extremely heavy. Instead, she said, ‘That’s far too much for a witch.’

‘But not too much for a son,’ said the Baron. ‘Not too much for an heir, not too much for continuity down the generations. Not too much for removing a lie from the world.’

‘But it can’t buy me another pair of hands,’ said Tiffany, ‘or change one second of the past.’

‘Nevertheless, I must insist that you take it,’ said the Baron, ‘if not for your sake, then for mine. It will take a burden off my soul and, believe me, it could do with a bit of shining up at this time, don’t you agree? I am going to die soon, am I not?’

‘Yes, sir. Very soon, I think, sir.’

Tiffany was beginning to understand something about the Baron by now, and she wasn’t surprised when he laughed.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘most people would have said, “Oh, no, old chap, you’ve got ages yet, you will be up and out of here in no time, lots of life left in you!”’

‘Yes, sir. I’m a witch, sir.’

‘And in this context that means …?’

‘I try very hard not to have to tell lies, sir.’

The old man shifted in his chair, and was suddenly solemn. ‘When the time comes …’ he began, and hesitated.

‘I will keep you company, sir, if you wish,’ said Tiffany.

The Baron looked relieved. ‘Have you ever seen Death?’

She had been expecting this and was ready. ‘Usually you just feel him passing, sir, but I have seen him twice, in what would have been the flesh, if he had any. He’s a skeleton with a scythe, just like in the books – in fact, I think it’s because that’s what he looks like in the books. He was polite but firm, sir.’

‘I’ll bet he is!’ The old man was silent for a little while and then went on. ‘Did he … drop any hints about the afterlife?’

‘Yes, sir. Apparently it contains no mustard, and I got the impression that it contains no pickles either.’

‘Really? Bit of a blow, that. I suppose that chutney is out of the question?’

‘I did not go into the subject of pickled condiments in any depth, sir. He had a big scythe.’

There was a loud knocking at the door, and Miss Spruce called loudly, ‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘In tip-top condition, dear Miss Spruce,’ said the Baron loudly, then lowered his voice to say conspiratorially, ‘I believe our Miss Spruce does not like you very much, my dear.’

‘She thinks I’m unhygienic,’ said Tiffany.

‘Never really understood about all that nonsense,’ said the Baron.

‘It’s quite easy,’ said Tiffany. ‘I have to stick my hands in the fire at every opportunity.’

‘What? You put your hands in the fire ?’

Now she was sorry she had mentioned it, but she knew the old man would not now be satisfied until she had shown him. She sighed and crossed over to the fireplace, pulling a large iron poker out of its stand. She admitted to herself that she liked showing off this trick occasionally, and the Baron would be an appreciative audience. But should she do it? Well, the fire trick was not that complicated and the balance of the pain was fine, and it wasn’t as if the Baron had much time left.

She drew a bucket of water from the little well at the far end of the room. The well had frogs in it, and therefore so did the bucket, but she was kind and dropped them back into their well. No one likes boiling a frog. The bucket of water was not strictly necessary, but it did have a part to play. Tiffany coughed theatrically. ‘Do you see, sir? I have one poker and one bucket of cold water. Cold metal poker, cold bucket of water. And now … I hold in my left hand the poker, and I stick my right hand into the hottest part of the fire, like this .’

The Baron gasped as flames burst around her hand and the tip of the poker in her other hand suddenly glowed red hot.

With the Baron suitably impressed, Tiffany dowsed the poker in the bucket of water, from which erupted a cloud of steam. Then she stood in front of the Baron, holding up both hands, quite unscathed.

‘But I saw flames come up!’ said the Baron, his eyes wide. ‘Well done! Very well done! Some sort of trick, yes?’

‘More of a skill, sir. I put my hand in the fire and sent the heat into the poker. I just moved the heat around. The flame you saw was caused by the burning of bits of dead skin, dirt, and all those nasty, invisible little biting things that unhygienic people might have on their hands …’ She paused. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ The Baron was staring at her. ‘Sir? Sir?’

The old man spoke as if he was reading from an invisible book: ‘ The hare runs into the fire. The hare runs into the fire. The fire, it takes her, she is not burned. The fire, it loves her, she is not burned. The hare runs into the fire. The fire, it loves her, she is free … It all comes back to me! How did I ever forget it! How did I dare to forget it? I told myself I would remember it for ever, but time goes on and the world fills up with things to remember, things to do, calls on your time, calls on your memory. And you forget the things that were important, the real things.’

Tiffany was shocked to see tears streaming down his face.

‘I remember it all,’ he whispered, his voice punctuated with sobs. ‘I remember the heat! I remember the hare!’

At which point the door banged open and Miss Spruce stepped into the room. What happened next took a moment, but seemed to Tiffany to go on for an hour. The nurse looked at her holding the poker, and then at the old man in tears, then at the cloud of steam, then back to Tiffany as she let the poker go, and then back to the old man, and then back to Tiffany as the poker landed in the hearth with a clang that echoed around the world. And then Miss Spruce took a deep breath like a whale preparing to dive to the bottom of the ocean and screamed, ‘What do you think you are doing to him? Get out of here, you brazen hussy!’

Tiffany’s ability to speak came back quickly, and then grew into an ability to shout. ‘I am not brazen and I don’t huss!’

‘I’m going to fetch the guards, you black and midnight hag!’ the nurse screamed, heading for the door.

‘It’s only eleven thirty!’ Tiffany shouted after her and hurried back to the Baron, totally at a loss as to what to do next. The pain shifted. She could feel it. She wasn’t keeping her mind straight. Things were getting out of balance. She concentrated for a moment and then, trying to smile, turned to the Baron.

‘I’m very sorry if I have upset you, sir,’ she began, and then realized that he was smiling through his tears and his whole face seemed full of sunlight.

‘Upset me? Good gracious no, I’m not upset.’ He tried to pull himself upright in the chair and pointed towards the fire with a trembling finger. ‘I am, in fact, set up! I feel alive! I am young, my dear Miss Tiffany Aching! I remember that perfect day! Can you not see me? Down in the valley? A perfect, crisp September day. A little boy in the tweed jacket that was far too itchy, as I recall, yes, was far too itchy and smelled of wee! And my father was singing “The Larks They Sang Melodious”, and I was trying to harmonize, which of course I couldn’t do then because I had about as much voice as a rabbit, and we were watching them burn the stubbles. There was smoke everywhere, and as the fire swept along, mice, rats, rabbits and even foxes were running towards us away from the flames. Pheasants and partridges were taking off like rockets at the last minute, as they do, and suddenly there was no sound at all and I saw this hare. Oh, she was a big one – did you know that country people used to think all hares were female? – and she just stood there, looking at me, with bits of burning grass falling around us, and the flames behind her, and she was looking directly at me, and I will swear that when she knew that she had caught my eye, she flicked herself into the air and jumped straight into the fire. And of course I cried like anything, because she was so fine. And my father picked me up and said he’d tell me a little secret, and he taught me the hare song, so that I would know the truth of it, and stop crying. And then later on, we walked over the ashes and there was no dead hare.’ The old man turned his head awkwardly towards her, and beamed, really beamed. He shone .