The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(36)

‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany, uncertain of herself. ‘But many ladies do not like to deal with an unknown man, as it were, in private circumstances. A lot of our work involves being midwives, you know, with the accent on wives.’

The boy’s Adam’s apple was shaking, but he managed to say, ‘I know that in the big city the Lady Sybil Free Hospital helps women and men alike. There is no doubt about it, mistress, that when it comes to surgery, there are ladies who are sometimes glad to see the surgeon.’ The boy seemed to brighten up for a moment and said, ‘I really feel I can be a witch. I know a lot about country things, and I have very little fingers which were of great use some while ago on the road, when I had to deal with a goat in labour, and it was in trouble. I had to roll up my sleeves and fiddle about with care to get the kid lined up to leave his mother. It was messy, of course, but the kid was alive, and the old man who owned the goat was in tears of gratitude.’

‘Really,’ said Tiffany stonily, wondering when ‘good with goats’ had become a qualification for being a witch. But the boy looked like a lost soul – so she relented and invited him in for a cup of tea. The goat was shown an overgrown patch of Creepalong Minnie under the apple tree, out of the rain, and seemed content to be left outside, although Tiffany could not help noticing – as any witch would notice – that it gave her an odd look of a kind not often seen in a goat’s slotted eyes. The type of look that makes you wary of turning your back, definitely, but something . . . more than that too.

As she beckoned the boy in, she saw You stroll past the apple tree and suddenly stop, her back arching and her tail fluffing out to a remarkable size as she spotted the goat. There was a pregnant pause as the two eyed each other up – and Tiffany could have sworn she saw a quick flash of fluorescent light, greenish-yellow-purple – and then all was suddenly calm, as if there had been an agreement signed and sealed. The goat returned to its nibbling, and You subsided to her normal size and strolled past, almost brushing against the goat’s legs. Tiffany was amazed. She had seen Nanny Ogg’s cat Greebo run from You! What kind of goat was this? Perhaps, she thought with interest, this boy is also more than he seems.

As they sat at the little kitchen table, she learned that the boy’s name was Geoffrey and that he was a long way from home. She noticed that he didn’t seem to want to talk about his family, so she tried another tack.

‘I am intrigued, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to be a witch instead of a wizard, which is something traditionally thought of as a man’s job?’

‘I’ve never thought of myself as a man, Mistress Tiffany. I don’t think I’m anything. I’m just me,’ he said quietly.

Good answer! Tiffany said to herself. Then she wondered, not for the first time, about the differences between wizards and witches. The main difference, she thought, was that wizards used books and staffs to create spells, big spells about big stuff, and they were men. While witches – always women – dealt with everyday stuff. Big stuff too, she reminded herself firmly. What could be bigger than births and deaths? But why shouldn’t this boy want to be a witch? She had chosen to be a witch, so why couldn’t he make the same choice? With a start, she realized it was her choice that counted here too. If she was going to be a sort of head witch, she should be able to decide this. She didn’t have to ask any other witches. It could be her decision. Her responsibility. Perhaps a first step towards doing things differently?

She looked at Geoffrey. There’s something about this lad and I don’t know what it is, she decided. But he seems harmless and looks quite down-trodden, so I will decide, and I choose to give him a try. As for the goat . . .

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can give you some bedding in the lean-to, and some food and drink for today. Your goat is your responsibility. But it’s getting late now, so we will talk again tomorrow.’

Next morning, whilst waiting for Nanny to drop by, Tiffany went to the lean-to with some food. The boy was asleep. She coughed carefully and the boy jumped at the sound.

‘Very well, Geoffrey, now tell me the truth. Are you running away from somebody? Parents, perhaps?’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Geoffrey, taking a mouthful of the bread Tiffany had brought but pushing the slice of ham to one side.

You little fibber, thought Tiffany, like any witch good at spotting a lie.fn1 She sighed. ‘Are you just running away from home then?’

‘Well, you could say that, mistress, but I am sixteen and I just wanted to leave.’

‘Don’t get on with your father, do you?’ said Tiffany, and she saw the boy metaphorically jump, as if she’d hit a nerve.

‘How could you see that, mistress!’

Tiffany sighed. ‘It does say witch on the door, doesn’t it? I might not be much older than you, but you aren’t the first runaway I’ve dealt with, and I’m absolutely certain there will be many more. Although,’ she added, ‘never one as highborn as you are, Mister Geoffrey. Good coat, you see. Well now, of what use can you be to me and my steading, Geoffrey?’

‘Oh, quite a lot, mistress,’ he said, trying to sound definite but just seeming hopeful.

And at that moment Nanny Ogg came round the corner of the cottage, not there one minute and then suddenly there, which was, Tiffany knew, Nanny’s way. She looked at Geoffrey, made an instant judgement, then winked at Tiffany and said, ‘Anythin’ going on, Tiff?’ Tiffany saw a suggestive grin on Nanny’s wrinkled face, as if an apple was suddenly leering at her. Geoffrey looked as if he was going to flee.