Chapter Five The Circle



Tiffany walked through the woods while Petulia flew unsteadily alongside in a series of straight lines. Tiffany learned that Petulia was nice, had three brothers, wanted to be a midwife for humans as well as pigs when she grew up, and was afraid of pins. She also learned that Petulia hated to disagree about anything.

So parts of the conversation went like this: Tiffany said, ‘I live down on the Chalk.’ And Petulia said, ‘Oh, where they keep all those sheep? I don’t like sheep much, they’re so kind of… baggy.’

Tiffany said, ‘Actually, we’re very proud of our sheep.’

And then you could stand back as Petulia reversed her opinions like someone trying to turn a cart round in a very narrow space: ‘Oh, I didn’t really mean I hate them. I expect some sheep are all right. We’ve got to have sheep, obviously. They’re better than goats, and woollier. I mean, I actually like sheep, really. Sheep are nice.’

Petulia spent a lot of time trying to find out what other people thought so that she could think the same way. It would be impossible to have an argument with her. Tiffany had to stop herself from saying ‘The sky is green’ just to see how long it would take for Petulia to agree. But she liked her. You couldn’t not like her. She was restful company. Besides, you couldn’t help liking someone who couldn’t make a broomstick turn corners.

It was a long walk through the woods. Tiffany had always wanted to see a forest so big that you couldn’t see daylight through the other side, but now she’d lived in one for a couple of weeks it got on her nerves. It was quite open woodland here, at least around the villages, and not hard to walk though. She’d had to learn what maples and birches were, and she’d never before seen the spruces and firs that grew higher up the slopes. But she wasn’t happy in the company of trees. She missed the horizons. She missed the sky. Everything was too close.

Petulia chattered nervously. Old Mother Blackcap was a pig-borer, cow-shouter and all-round veterinary witch. Petulia liked animals, especially pigs because they had wobbly noses. Tiffany quite liked animals too, but no one except other animals liked animals as much as Petulia.

‘So… what’s this meeting about?’ she said, to change the subject.

‘Um? Oh, it’s just to keep in touch,’ said Petulia. ‘Annagramma says it’s important to make contacts.’

‘Annagramma’s the leader, then, is she?’ said Tiffany.

‘Um, no. Witches don’t have leaders, Annagramma says.’

‘Hmm,’ said Tiffany.

They arrived at last at a clearing in the woods, just as the sun was setting. There were the remains of an old cottage there, now covered mostly in brambles. You might miss it completely if you didn’t spot the rampant growth of lilac and the gooseberry bushes, now a forest of thorns. Someone had lived here once, and had a garden.

Someone else, now, had lit a fire. Badly. And they had found that lying down flat to blow on a fire because you hadn’t started it with enough paper and dry twigs was not a good idea, because it would then cause your pointy hat, which you had forgotten to take off, to fall into the smoking mess and then, because it was dry, catch fire.

A young witch was now flailing desperately at her burning hat, watched by several interested spectators.

Another one, sitting on a log, said: ‘Dimity Hubbub, that is literally the most stupid thing anyone has ever done anywhere in the whole world, ever.’ It was a sharp, not very nice voice, the sort most people used for being sarcastic with.

‘Sorry, Annagramma!’ said Miss Hubbub, pulling off the hat and stamping on the point.

‘I mean, just look at you, will you? You really are letting everyone down.’

‘Sorry, Annagramma!’

‘Um,’ said Petulia.

Everyone turned to look at the new arrivals.

‘You’re late, Petulia Gristle!’ snapped Annagramma. ‘And who’s this?’

‘Um, you did ask me to call in at Miss Level’s to bring the new girl, Annagramma,’ said Petulia, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

Annagramma stood up. She was at least a head taller than Tiffany and had a face that seemed to be built backwards from her nose, which she held slightly in the air. To be looked at by Annagramma was to know that you’d already taken up too much of her valuable time.

‘Is this her?’

‘Um, yes, Annagramma.’

‘Let’s have a look at you, new girl.’

Tiffany stepped forward. It was amazing. She hadn’t really meant to. But Annagramma had the kind of voice that you obeyed.

‘What is your name?’

‘Tiffany Aching?’ said Tiffany, and found herself saying her name as if she was asking permission to have it.

‘Tiffany? That’s a funny name,’ said the tall girl. ‘My name is Annagramma Hawkin.’

‘Um, Annagramma works for—’ Petulia began.

‘—works with,’ said Annagramma sharply, still looking Tiffany up and down.

‘Um, sorry, works with Mrs Earwig,’ said Petulia. ‘But she—’

‘I intend to leave next year,’ said Annagramma. ‘Apparently, I’m doing extremely well. So you’re the girl who’s joined Miss Level, are you? She’s weird, you know. The last three girls all left very quickly. They said it was just too strange trying to keep track of which one of her was which.’

‘Which witch was which,’ said one of the girls cheerfully.

‘Anyone can do that pun, Lucy Warbeck,’ said Annagramma without looking round. ‘It’s not funny, and it’s not clever.’

She turned her attention back to Tiffany, who felt that she was being examined as critically and thoroughly as Granny Aching would check a ewe she might be thinking of buying. She wondered if Annagramma would actually try to open her mouth and make sure she had all her teeth.

‘They say you can’t breed good witches on chalk,’ said Annagramma.

All the other girls looked from Annagramma to Tiffany, who thought: Ha!, so witches don’t have leaders, do they? But she was in no mood to make enemies.

‘Perhaps they do,’ she said quietly. This did not seem to be what Annagramma wanted to hear.

‘You haven’t even dressed the part,’ said Annagramma.

‘Sorry,’ said Tiffany.

‘Um, Annagramma says that if you want people to treat you like a witch you should look like one,’ Petulia said.

‘Hmm,’ said Annagramma, staring at Tiffany as if she’d failed a simple test. Then she nodded her head. ‘Well, we all had to start somewhere.’ She stood back. ‘Ladies, this is Tiffany. Tiffany, you know Petulia. She crashes into trees. Dimity Hubbub is the one with the smoke coming out of her hat, so that she looks like a chimney. That’s Gertruder Tiring, that’s the hilariously funny Lucy Warbeck, that’s Harrieta Bilk, who can’t seem to do anything about the squint, and then that’s Lulu Darling, who can’t seem to do anything about the name. You can sit in for this evening… Tiffany, wasn’t it? I’m sorry you’ve been taken on by Miss Level. She’s rather sad. Complete amateur. Hasn’t really got a clue. Just bustles about and hopes. Oh, well, it’s too late now. Gertruder, Summon the World’s Four Corners and Open the Circle, please.’

‘Er…’ said Gertruder, nervously. It was amazing how many people around Annagramma became nervous.

‘Do I have to do everything around here?’ said Annagramma. ‘Try to remember, please! We must have been through this literally a million times!’

‘I’ve never heard of the world’s four corners,’ said Tiffany.

‘Really? There’s a surprise,’ said Annagramma.

‘Well, they’re the directions of power, Tiffany, and I would advise you to do something about that name, too, please.’

‘But the world’s round, like a plate,’ said Tiffany.

‘Um, you have to imagine them,’ Petulia whispered.

Tiffany wrinkled her forehead. ‘Why?’ she said.

Annagramma rolled her eyes. ‘Because that’s the way to do things properly.’

‘Oh.’

‘You have done some kind of magic, haven’t you?’ Annagramma demanded.

Tiffany was a bit confused. She wasn’t used to people like Annagramma. ‘Yes,’ she said. All the other girls were staring at her, and Tiffany couldn’t help thinking about sheep. When a dog attacks a sheep, the other sheep run away to a safe distance and then turn and watch. They don’t gang up on the dog. They’re just happy it’s not them.

‘What are you best at then?’ snapped Annagramma.

Tiffany, her mind still full of sheep, spoke without thinking. ‘Soft Nellies,’ she said. ‘It’s a sheep cheese. It’s quite hard to make…’

She looked around at the circle of blank faces and felt embarrassment rise inside her like hot jelly.

‘Um, Annagramma meant what magic can you do best,’ said Petulia kindly.

‘Although Soft Nellies is good,’ said Annagramma with a cruel little smile. One or two of the girls gave that little snort that meant they were trying not to laugh out loud but didn’t mind showing that they were trying.

Tiffany looked down at her boots again. ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled, ‘but I did throw the Queen of the Fairies out of my country.’

‘Really?’ said Annagramma. ‘The Queen of the Fairies, eh? How did you do that?’

‘I’m… not sure. I just got angry with her.’ And it was hard to remember exactly what had happened that night. Tiffany recalled the anger, terrible anger, and the world… changing. She’d seen it clearer than a hawk sees, heard it better than a dog hears, felt its age beneath her feet, felt the hills still living. And she remembered thinking that no one could do this for long and still be human.

‘Well, you’ve got the right boots for stamping your foot,’ said Annagramma. There were a few more half-concealed giggles. ‘A Queen of the Fairies,’ she added. ‘I’m sure you did. Well, it helps to dream.’

‘I don’t tell lies,’ mumbled Tiffany, but no one was listening.

Sullen and upset, she watched the girls Open the Corners and Summon the Circle, unless she’d got that the wrong way round. This went on for some time. It would have gone better if they’d all been sure what to do, but it was probably hard to know what to do when Annagramma was around, since she kept correcting everyone. She was standing with a big book open in her arms.

‘…now you, Gertruder, go widdershins, no, that’s the other way, I must have told you literally a thousand times, and Lulu—where’s Lulu? Well, you shouldn’t have been there! Get the shriven chalice—not that one, no, the one without handles… yes. Harrieta, hold the Wand of the Air a bit higher, I mean, it must be in the air, d’you understand? And for goodness’ sake, Petulia, please try to look a little more stately, will you? I appreciate that it doesn’t come naturally to you, but you might at least show you’re making an effort. By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, no invocation ever written starts with “um”, unless I’m very much mistaken. Harrieta, is that the Cauldron of the Sea? Does it even look like a Cauldron of the Sea? I don’t think so, do you? What was that noise?

The girls looked down. Then someone mumbled: ‘Dimity trod on the Circlet of Infinity, Annagramma.’

‘Not the one with the genuine seed-pearls on it?’ said Annagramma in a tight little voice.

‘Um, yes,’ said Petulia. ‘But I’m sure she’s very sorry. Um… shall I make a cup of tea?’

The book slammed shut.

‘What is the point?’ said Annagramma to the world in general. ‘What. Is. The. Point? Do you want to spend the rest of your lives as village witches, curing boils and warts for a cup of tea and a biscuit? Well? Do you?’

There was a shuffling among the huddled witches, and a general murmur of ‘No, Annagramma.’

‘You did all read Mrs Earwig’s book, didn’t you?’ she demanded. ‘Well, did you?’

Petulia raised a hand nervously. ‘Um—’ she began.

‘Petulia, I’ve told you literally a million times not to start. Every. Single. Sentence. With “Um”—haven’t I?’

‘Um—’ said Petulia, trembling with nervousness.

‘Just speak up, for goodness’ sake! Don’t hesitate all the time!’

‘Um—’

‘Petulia!’

‘Um—’

‘Really, you might make an effort. Honestly, I don’t know what’s the matter with all of you!’

I do, Tiffany thought. You’re like a dog worrying sheep all the time. You don’t give them time to obey you and you don’t let them know when they’ve done things right. You just keep barking.

Petulia had lapsed into tongue-tied silence.

Annagramma put the book down on the log. ‘Well, we’ve completely lost the moment,’ she said. ‘We may as well have that cup of tea, Petulia. Do hurry up.’

Petulia, relieved, grabbed the kettle. People relaxed a little.

Tiffany looked at the cover of the book. It read:



The Higher MagiK

by Letice Earwig, Witch



‘Magic with a K?’ she said aloud. ‘Magikkkk?’

‘That’s deliberate,’ said Annagramma coldly. ‘Mrs Earwig says that if we are to make any progress at all we must distinguish the higher MagiK from the everyday sort.’

‘The everyday sort of magic?’ said Tiffany.

‘Exactly. None of that mumbling in hedgerows for us. Proper sacred circles, spells written down. A proper hierarchy, not everyone running around doing whatever they feel like. Real wands, not bits of grubby stick. Professionalism, with respect. Absolutely no warts. That’s the only way forward.’

‘Well, I think—’ Tiffany began.

‘I don’t really care what you think because you don’t know enough yet,’ said Annagramma sharply. She turned to the group in general. ‘Do we all at least have something for the Trials this year?’ she asked. There were general murmurs and nods in the theme of ‘yes’.

‘What about you, Petulia?’ said Annagramma.

‘I’m going to do the pig trick, Annagramma,’ said Petulia meekly.

‘Good. You’re nearly good at that,’ said Annagramma, and pointed around the circle, from one girl to another, nodding at their answers, until she came to Tiffany.

‘Soft Nellies?’ she said, to sniggering amusement.

‘What are Witch Trials?’ said Tiffany. ‘Miss Tick mentioned them, but I don’t know what they are.’

Annagramma gave one of her noisy sighs.

‘You tell her, Petulia,’ she said. ‘You brought her, after all.’

Hesitantly, with lots of ‘um’s and glances at Annagramma, Petulia explained about the Witch Trials. Um, it was a time when witches from all over the mountains could meet up, and um see old friends and um pick up the latest news and gossip. Ordinary people could come along too, and there was a fair and um sideshows.

It was quite an um big event. And in the afternoon all the witches that um wanted to could show off a spell or um something they’d been working on, which was very um popular.

To Tiffany, they sounded like sheepdog trials, without the dogs or the sheep. They were in Sheercliff this year, which was quite close.

‘And is there a prize?’ she asked.

‘Um, oh no,’ said Petulia. ‘It’s all done in spirit of fun and good fellow—um, good sistership.’

‘Hah!’ said Annagramma. ‘Not even she will believe that! It’s all a fix, anyway. They’ll all applaud Mistress Weatherwax. She always wins, whatever she does. She just messes up people’s minds. She just fools them into thinking she’s good. She wouldn’t last five minutes against a wizard. They do real magic. And she dresses like a scarecrow, too! It’s ignorant old women like her who keep witchcraft rooted in the past, as Mrs Earwig points out in chapter one!’

One or two girls looked uncertain. Petulia even looked over her shoulder.

‘Um, people do say she’s done amazing things, Annagramma,’ she said. ‘And, um, they say she can spy on people miles away—’

‘Yes, they say that,’ said Annagramma. That’s because they’re all frightened of her! She’s such a bully! That’s all she does, bully people and mess up their heads! That’s old witchcraft, that is. Just one step away from cackling, in my opinion. She’s half cracked now, they say.’

‘She didn’t seem cracked to me.’

Who said that?’ snapped Annagramma.

Everyone looked at Tiffany, who wished she hadn’t spoken. But now there was nothing for it but to go on.

‘She was just a bit old and stern,’ she said. ‘But she was quite… polite. She didn’t cackle.’

‘You’ve met her?’

‘Yes.’

She spoke to you, did she?’ snarled Annagramma. ‘Was that before or after you kicked out the Fairy Queen?’

‘Just after,’ said Tiffany, who was not used to this sort of thing. ‘She turned up on a broomstick,’ she added. ‘I am telling the truth.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Annagramma, smiling grimly. ‘And she congratulated you, I expect.’

‘Not really,’ said Tiffany. ‘She seemed pleased, but it was hard to tell.’

And then Tiffany said something really, really stupid. Long afterwards, and long after all sorts of things had happened, she’d go ‘la la la!’ to blot out the memory whenever something reminded her of that evening.

She said: ‘She did give me this hat.’

And they said, all of them, with one voice: ‘What hat?



Petulia took her back to the cottage. She did her best, and assured Tiffany that she believed her, but Tiffany knew she was just being nice. Miss Level tried to talk to her as she ran upstairs, but she bolted her door, kicked off her boots and lay down on the bed with the pillow over her head to drown out the laughter echoing inside.

Downstairs, there was some muffled conversation between Petulia and Miss Level and then the sound of the door closing as Petulia left.

After a while there was a scraping noise as Tiffany’s boots were dragged across the floor and arranged neatly under the bed. Oswald was never off duty.

After another while the laughter died down, although she was sure it’d never go completely.

Tiffany could feel the hat. At least, she had been able to feel it. The virtual hat, on her real head. But no one could see it, and Petulia had even waved a hand back and forth over Tiffany’s head and encountered a complete absence of hat.

The worst part—and it was hard to find the worst part, so humiliatingly bad had it been—was hearing Annagramma say, ‘No, don’t laugh at her. That’s too cruel. She’s just foolish, that’s all. I told you the old woman messes with people’s heads!’

Tiffany’s First Thoughts were running around in circles. Her Second Thoughts were caught up in the storm. Only her Third Thoughts, which were very weak, came up with: Even though your world is completely and utterly ruined and can never be made better, no matter what, and you’re completely inconsolable, it would be nice if you heard someone bringing some soup upstairs

The Third Thoughts got Tiffany off the bed and over to the door, where they guided her hand to slide the bolt back. Then they let her fling herself on the bed again.

A few minutes later there was a creak of footsteps on the landing. It’s nice to be right.

Miss Level knocked, then came in after a decent pause. Tiffany heard the tray go down on the table, then felt the bed move as a body sat down on it.

‘Petulia is a capable girl, I’ve always thought,’ said Miss Level, after a while. ‘She’ll make some village a very serviceable witch one day.’

Tiffany stayed silent.

‘She told me all about it,’ said Miss Level. ‘Miss Tick never mentioned the hat, but if I was you I wouldn’t have told her about it anyway. It sounds the sort of thing Mistress Weatherwax would do. You know, sometimes it helps to talk about these things.’

More silence from Tiffany…

‘Actually, that’s not true,’ Miss Level added. ‘But as a witch I am incredibly inquisitive and would love to know more.’

That had no effect either. Miss Level sighed and stood up. ‘I’ll leave the soup, but if you let it get too cold Oswald will try to take it away.’

She went downstairs.

Nothing stirred in the room for about five minutes, then there was faintest of tinkles as the soup began to move.

Tiffany’s hand shot out and gripped the tray firmly. That’s the job of Third Thoughts: First and Second Thoughts might understand your current tragedy, but something has to remember that you haven’t eaten since lunch time.

Afterwards, and after Oswald had speedily taken the empty bowl away, Tiffany lay in the dark, staring at nothing.

The novelty of this new country had taken all her attention in the past few days, but now that had drained away in the storm of laughter, and homesickness rushed to fill in the empty spaces.

She missed the sounds and the sheep and the silences of the Chalk. She missed seeing the blackness of the hills from her bedroom window, outlined against the stars. She missed… part of herself…

But they’d laughed at her. They’d said, ‘What hat?’ and they’d laughed even more when she’d raised her hand to touch the invisible brim and hadn’t found it

She’d touched it every day for eighteen months, and now it had gone. And she couldn’t make a shamble. And she just had a green dress, while all the other girls wore black ones. Annagramma had a lot of jewellery, too, in black and silver. All the other girls had shambles, too, beautiful ones. Who cared if they were just for show?

Perhaps she wasn’t a witch at all. Oh, she’d defeated the Queen, with the help of the little men and the memory of Granny Aching, but she hadn’t used magic. She wasn’t sure, now, what she had used. She’d felt something go down through the soles of the boots, down through the hills and through the years, and come back loud and roaring in a rage that shook the sky:

how dare you invade my world, my land, my life

But what had the virtual hat done for her? Perhaps the old woman had tricked her, had just made her think there was a hat there. Perhaps she was a bit cracked, like Annagramma had said, and had just got things wrong. Perhaps Tiffany should go home and make Soft Nellies for the rest of her life.

Tiffany turned round and crawled down the bed and opened her suitcase. She pulled out the rough box, opened it in the dark and closed a hand around the lucky stone.

She’d hoped that there’d be some kind of spark, some kind of friendliness in it. There was none. There was just the roughness of the outside of the stone, the smoothness on the face where it had split, and the sharpness between the two. And the piece of sheep’s wool did nothing but make her fingers smell of sheep, and this made her long for home and feel even more upset. The silver horse was cold.

Only someone quite close would have heard the sob. It was quite faint, but it was carried on the dark red wings of misery. She wanted, longed for the hiss of wind in the turf and the feel of centuries under her feet. She wanted that sense, which had never left her before, of being where Achings had lived for thousands of years. She needed blue butterflies and the sounds of sheep and the big empty skies.

Back home, when she’d felt upset, she’d gone up to the remains of the old shepherding hut and sat there for a while. That had always worked.

It was a long way away now. Too far. Now, she was full of a horrible, heavy dead feeling, and there was nowhere to leave it. And it wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

Where was the magic? Oh, she understood that you had learn about the basic, everyday craft, but when did the ‘witch’ part turn up? She’d been trying to learn, she really had, and she was turning into… well, a good worker, a handy girl with potions and a reliable person. Dependable, like Miss Level.

She’d expected—well, what? Well… to be doing serious witch stuff, you know, broomsticks, magic, guarding the world against evil forces in a noble yet modest way, and then also doing good for poor people because she was a really nice person. And the people she’d seen in the picture had rather less messy ailments and their children didn’t have such runny noses. Mr Weavall’s flying toenails weren’t in it anywhere. Some of them boomeranged.

She got sick on broomsticks. Every time. She couldn’t even make a shamble. She was going to spend her days running around after people who, to be honest, could sometimes be doing a bit more for themselves. No magic, no flying, no secrets… just toenails and bogeys.

She belonged to the Chalk. Every day, she’d told the hills what they were. Every day, they’d told her who she was. But now she couldn’t hear them.

Outside it began to rain, quite hard, and in the distance Tiffany heard the mutter of thunder.

What would Granny Aching have done? But even folded in the wings of despair she knew the answer to that.

Granny Aching never gave up. She’d search all night for a lost lamb

She lay looking at nothing for a while, and then lit the candle by the bed and swivelled her legs onto the floor. This couldn’t wait until morning.

Tiffany had a little trick for seeing the hat. If you moved your hand behind it quickly, there was a slight, brief blurriness to what you saw, as though the light coming through the invisible hat took a little more time.

It had to be there…

Well, the candle should give enough light to be sure. If the hat was there, everything would be fine and it wouldn’t matter what other people thought…

She stood in the middle of the carpet, while lightning danced across the mountains outside, and closed her eyes.

Down in the garden the apple-tree branches flayed in the wind, the dreamcatchers and curse-nets clashing and jangling

‘See me,’ she said.

The world went quiet, totally silent. It hadn’t done that before. But Tiffany tiptoed around until she knew she was opposite herself, and opened her eyes again…

And there she was, and so was the hat, as clear as it had ever been—

And the image of Tiffany below, a young girl in a green dress, opened its eyes and smiled at her and said:

We see you. Now we are you.’

Tiffany tried to shout ‘See me not!’ But there was no mouth to shout…

Lightning struck somewhere nearby. The window blew in. The candle flame flew out in a streamer of fire, and died.

And then there was only darkness, and the hiss of the rain.





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