The Wit And Wisdom Of Discworld

by The Wit

Tiffany’s got to get him back. To help her, she has a weapon (a frying pan), her granny’s magic book (well, Diseases of the Sheep, actually) and—

  ‘Crivens! Whut aboot us, ye daftie!’

  —oh, yes. She’s also got the Nac Mac Feegle, the Wee Free Men, the fightin’, thievin’, tiny blue-skinned pictsies who were thrown out of Fairyland for being Drunk and Disorderly…

  Ordinary fortune-tellers tell you what you want to happen; witches tell you what’s going to happen whether you want it to or not. Strangely enough, witches tend to be more accurate but less popular.

  *

  There was a small part of Tiffany’s brain that wasn’t too certain about the name Tiffany. She was nine years old and felt that Tiffany was going to be a hard name to live up to. Besides, she’d decided only last week that she wanted to be a witch when she grew up, and she was certain Tiffany just wouldn’t work. People would laugh.

  *

  The teachers were useful. They went from village to village delivering short lessons on many subjects. They kept apart from the other travellers, and were quite mysterious in their ragged robes and strange square hats. They used long words, like ‘corrugated iron’. They lived rough lives, surviving on what food they could earn from giving lessons to anyone who would listen. When no one would listen, they lived on baked hedgehog. They went to sleep under the stars, which the maths teachers would count, the astronomy teachers would measure and the literature teachers would name. The geography teachers got lost in the woods and fell into bear traps.

  *

  ‘I would like a question answered today’ said Tiffany. ‘It’s about zoology.’

  ‘Zoology, eh? That’s a big word, isn’t it.’

  ‘No, actually it isn’t,’ said Tiffany. ‘Patronizing is a big word. Zoology is really quite short.’

  *

  ‘Are you a witch?’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t mind if you are.’

  ‘What a strange question to spring on someone,’ said the woman. ‘Why would I be a witch?’

  ‘You’re wearing a straw hat with flowers in it.’

  ‘Aha!’ said the woman. ‘That proves it, then. Witches wear tall pointy hats. Everyone knows that, foolish child.’

  ‘Yes, but witches are also very clever,’ said Tiffany calmly. ‘They sneak about. Probably they often don’t look like witches. And a witch coming here would know about the Baron and so she’d wear the kind of hat that everyone knows witches don’t wear.’

  ‘That was an incredible feat of reasoning,’ the woman said at last. ‘Whatever kind of hat I’ve got on, you’d say it proves I’m a witch, yes?’

  ‘Well, the frog sitting on your hat is a bit of a clue, too,’ said Tiffany.

  ‘I’m a toad, actually’ said the creature, which had been peering at Tiffany from between the paper flowers.

  You’re very yellow for a toad.’

  ‘I’ve been a bit ill,’ said the toad.

  ‘And you talk,’ said Tiffany.

  You only have my word for it,’ said the toad, disappearing into the paper flowers. ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  *

  ‘Witches have animals they can talk to, called familiars. Like your toad there.’

  ‘I’m not familiar,’ said a voice from among the paper flowers. ‘I’m just slightly presumptuous.’

  *

  ‘If you have a grandmother who can pass on her pointy hat to you, that saves a great deal of expense. They are incredibly hard to come by, especially ones strong enough to withstand falling farmhouses.’

  *

  ‘You might make a decent witch one day’ she said. ‘But I don’t teach people to be witches. They learn in a special school. I just show them the way, if they’re any good. All witches have special interests, and I like children.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re much easier to fit in the oven,’ said Miss Tick.

  *

  ‘I will give you some free advice.’

  ‘Will it cost me anything?’

  ‘You could say it is priceless. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now … if you trust in yourself …’

  Yes?’

  ‘… and believe in your dreams …’

  Yes?’

  ‘… and follow your star …’

  Yes?’

  ‘… you’ll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren’t so lazy’

  *

  A lot of the stories were highly suspicious, in her opinion. There was the one that ended when the two good children pushed the wicked witch into her own oven. Tiffany had worried about that after all that trouble with Mrs Snapperly Stories like this stopped people thinking properly, she was sure. She’d read that one and thought, Excuse me? No one has an oven big enough to get a whole person in, and what made the children think they could just walk around eating people’s houses in any case? And why does some boy too stupid to know a cow is worth a lot more than five beans have the right to murder a giant and steal all his gold? Not to mention commit an act of ecological vandalism? And some girl who can’t tell the difference between a wolf and her grandmother must either have been as dense as teak or come from an extremely ugly family.

  *

  They were all about six inches tall and mostly coloured blue, although it was hard to know if that was the actual colour of their skins or just the dye from their tattoos, which covered every inch that wasn’t covered with red hair. They wore short kilts, and some wore other bits of clothing too, like skinny waistcoats. A few of them wore rabbit or rat skulls on their heads, as a sort of helmet. And every single one of them carried, slung across his back, a sword nearly as big as he was.

  ‘Whut’s the plan, Rob?’ said one of them.

  ‘Okay lads, this is what we’ll do. As soon as we see somethin’, we’ll attack it. Right?’

  This caused a cheer.

  Ach, ‘tis a good plan,’ said Daft Wullie.

  Glint, glisten, glitter, gleam …

  Tiffany thought a lot about words. ‘Onomatopoeic’, she’d discovered in the dictionary, meant words that sounded like the noise of the thing they were describing, like ‘cuckoo’. But she thought there should be a word meaning ‘a word that sounds like the noise a thing would make if that thing made a noise even though, actually, it doesn’t, but would if it did’.

  Glint, for example. If light made a noise as it reflected off a distant window, it’d go ‘glint!’ And the light of tinsel, all those little glints chiming together, would make a noise like ‘glitterglitter’. ‘Gleam’ was a clean, smooth noise from a surface that intended to shine all day. And ‘glisten’ was the soft, almost greasy sound of something rich and oily.

  *

  ‘What’s your name, pictsie?’ she said.

  ‘No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress. There’s no’ that many Feegle names, ye ken, so we ha’ to share.’

  ‘Well, Not-as-big-as-Little-Jock—’ Tiffany began.

  ‘That’d be Medium-Sized Jock, mistress,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium -Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.

  ‘Well, Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock, I can—’

  ‘That’s No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. ‘Ye were one jock short,’ he added helpfully.

  *

  There was some method in the way the Nac Mac Feegle fought. For example, they always chose the biggest opponent because, as Rob Anybody said later, ‘It makes them easier to hit, ye ken’. And they simply didn’t stop. It was that which wore people down. It was like being attacked by wasps with fists.

  *

  ‘The thing about witchcraft,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, ‘is that it’s not like school at all. First you get the test, and then afterwards you spend years findin’ out how you passed it. It’s a bit like life in that re
spect.’

  *

  ‘And what do you really do?’ said Tiffany.

  ‘We look to … the edges,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. There’re a lot of edges, more than people know. Between life and death, this world and the next, night and day, right and wrong … an’ they need watchin’. We watch ‘em, we guard the sum of things. And we never ask for any reward. That’s important.’

  *

  ‘Hooses, banks, dreams, ‘tis a’ the same to us,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘There’s nothing we cannae get in or oot of.’

  ‘Except maybe pubs,’ said Big Yan.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob Anybody cheerfully. ‘Gettin’ oot o’ pubs sometimes causes us a cerrrtain amount o’ difficulty, I’ll grant ye that.’

  IT began as a sudden strange fancy…

  Polly Perks had to become a boy in a tarry. Slitting off her hair and wearing trousers was easy. Learning to fart and belch in public and walk like an ape took more time…

  And now she’s enlisted in the army, and is searching for her lost brother.

  But there’s a war on. There’s always a war on. And Polly and her fellow recruits are suddenly in the thick of it, without any training, and the enemy is hunting them.

  All they have on their side is the most artful sergeant in the army and a vampire with a lust for coffee. Well … they have the Secret. And as they take the war to the heart of the enemy, they have to Use all the resources of… the Monstrous Regiment.

  And then there was the young male walk. At least women swung only their hips. Young men swung everything, from the shoulders down. You have to try to occupy a lot of space. It makes you look bigger, like a tomcat fluffing his tail. The boys tried to walk big in self-defence against all those other big boys out there. I’m bad, I’m fierce, I’m cool, I’d like a pint of shandy and me mam wants me home by nine …

  *

  Polly reached the troll bridge, which crossed the river in a narrow gorge. It cost one penny to cross, or one hundred gold pieces if you had a billygoat. Trolls might not be quick thinkers but they don’t forget in a hurry, either.

  *

  ‘Ever eaten scubbo? No? Nothing like a bowl of scubbo when you’re hungry. You can put anything in scubbo. Pork, beef, mutton, rabbit, chicken, duck … anything. Even rats, if you’ve got ‘em. It’s food for the marching man, scubbo. Got some on the boil right now. You can have some of that, if you like.’

  The squad brightened up.

  ‘Thoundth good,’ said Igor. ‘What’th in it?’

  ‘Boiling water,’ said the corporal. ‘It’s what we call “blind scubbo”.’

  *

  You could try scrounging something at the inn.’

  ‘Scrounge?’ said Polly.

  Yeah. Scrounge. Scrounge, nick, have a lend of, borrow, thieve, lift, acquire, purrrr-loin. That’s what you’ll learn, if you’re gonna survive this war.’

  ‘We have to steal our food?’ said Maladict.

  ‘No, you can starve if that takes your fancy’ said the corporal. ‘I’ve starved a few times. There’s no future in it. Ate a man’s leg when we were snowed up in the Ibblestarn campaign but, fair’s fair, he ate mine.’

  *

  Lieutenant Blouse was standing in the middle of the floor in his breeches and shirtsleeves, holding a sabre. Polly was no expert in these matters, but she thought she recognized the stylish, flamboyant pose as the one beginners tend to use just before they’re stabbed through the heart by a more experienced fighter.

  *

  ‘These are tricky times, sergeant. Command has never been so burdensome. The great General Tacticus says that in dangerous times the commander must be like the eagle and see the whole, and yet still be like the hawk and see every detail.’

  Yessir,’ said Jackrum. ‘And if he acts like a common tit, sir, he can hang upside down all day and eat fat bacon.’

  *

  A woman always has half an onion left over, no matter what the size of the onion, the dish or the woman.

  *

  Jackrum stepped back. ‘We are heading for the front, lads. The war. And in a nasty war, where’s the best place to be? Apart from on the moon, o’ course? No one?’

  Slowly, Jade raised a hand.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘In the army, sarge,’ said the troll. ‘ ‘cos …’ She began to count on her fingers. ‘One, you got weapons an’ armour an’ dat. Two, you are surrounded by other armed men. Er … Many, youse gettin’ paid and gettin’ better grub than the people in Civilian Street. Er … Lots, if’n you gives up, you getting taken pris’ner and dere’s rules about that like Not Kicking Pris’ners Inna Head and stuff, ‘cos if you kick their pris’ners inna head they’ll kick your pris’ners inna head so dat’s, like, you’re kickin’ your own head, but dere’s no rule say you can’t kick enemy civilians inna head. There’s other stuff too, but I ran outa numbers.’

  *

  ‘You know what most of the milit’ry training is, Perks?’ Jackrum went on. ‘It’s to turn you into a man who will, on the word of command, stick his blade into some poor sod just like him who happens to be wearing the wrong uniform. He’s like you, you’re like him. He doesn’t really want to kill you, you don’t really want to kill him. But if you don’t kill him first, he’ll kill you. That’s the start and finish of it. It don’t come easy without trainin’.’

  *

  Polly wondered if Jackrum ever slept. She did a spell of guard duty, and he stepped out from behind her with ‘Guess who, Perks! You’re on lookout. You should see the dreadful enemy before they see you. What’re the four Ss?’

  ‘Shape, shadow, silhouette and shine, sarge!’ said Polly, snapping to attention.

  That caused a moment’s pause from the sergeant before he said: ‘Just knew that, did yer?’

  ‘Nosir! A little bird told me when we changed guard, sir! Said you’d asked him, sir!’

  ‘Oh, so Jackrum’s little lads are gangin’ up on their kindly ol’ sergeant, are they?’ said Jackrum.

  ‘Nosir. Sharing information important to the squad in a vital survival situation, sarge!’

  ‘But I see you’re not standing in a bleedin’ shadow, Perks, nor have you done anything to change your bleedin’ shape, you’re silhouetted against the bleedin’ light and your sabre’s shining like a diamond in a chimney-sweep’s bleedin’ ear’ole! Explain!’

  ‘It’s because of the one C, sarge!’ said Polly, still staring straight ahead.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Colour, sarge! I’m wearing bleedin’ red and white in a bleedin’ grey forest, sarge!’

  She risked a sideways glance. In Jackrum’s little piggy eyes there gleamed a gleam. It was the one you got when he was secretly pleased.

  ‘Ashamed of your lovely, lovely uniform, Perks?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t want to be seen dead in it, sarge,’ said Polly.

  *

  ‘General Tacticus said the fate of a battle may depend upon the actions of one man in the right place, sergeant,’ said Blouse, calmly.

  ‘And having a lot more soldiers than the other bugger, sir,’ Jackrum insisted.

  *

  ‘Is that rum, sarge?’ said Polly.

  ‘Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn’t it be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don’t have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman.’

  ‘Hangman?’ said Shufti.

  ‘One drop and you’re dead,’ said Polly.

  *

  ‘All right,’ Polly whispered. ‘Remember, no swearing. No weapons, either. Anyone brought a weapon?’

  There was a shaking of heads.

  ‘Did you bring a weapon, Tonk— Magda?’

  ‘No, Polly’

  ‘No item of any sort with a certain weapon-like quality?’ Polly insisted.

  ‘No, Polly’ said Tonker demurely.

  ‘Anything, perhaps, with an edge?’

  ‘O
h, you mean this?’

  ‘Yes, Magda.’

  ‘Well, a woman can carry a knife, can’t she?’

  ‘It’s a sabre, Magda. You’re trying to hide it, but it’s a sabre.’

  ‘But I’m only using it like a knife, Polly’

  ‘It’s three feet long, Magda.’

  ‘Size isn’t important, Polly’

  ‘No one believes that. Leave it behind a tree, please.’

  It is an established fact that, despite everything society can do, girls of seven are magnetically attracted to the colour pink.

  ‘Sir, you know you said you were going to steal a gate key off a guard and break his neck?’ said Polly.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do you know how to break a man’s neck, sir?’

  ‘I read a book on martial arts, Perks.’

  ‘But you haven’t actually done it, sir?’

  ‘Well, no! I was at HQ, and you are not allowed to practise on real people, Perks.’

  ‘Look, sir, I’m just a … what is your name, please?’

  ‘Sam Vimes. Special envoy, which is kind of like an ambassador but without the little gold chocolates.’

  *

  Trying to break into a fortified and heavily guarded keep, the male Lieutenant Blouse comes up with a cunning plan, which he explains to one of his soldiers, who (unknown to him) is really female. This is the Inexorable Law of Comic Cross-Dressing:

  ‘Astonishingly enough, Perks,’ said Blouse, ‘in your boyish enthusiasm you have given me a very interesting idea … because, of course, we only need one “washerwoman” to get us inside, do we not? And if one thinks “outside of the box”, the “woman” does not in fact need to be a woman!’

  Blouse beamed. Polly allowed her brow to wrinkle in honest puzzlement.

  ‘Doesn’t she, sir?’ she said. ‘I don’t think I quite understand, sir.’

  ‘“She”, could be a man! One of us! In disguise.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Polly quietly.

  ‘Really private. It would simply not work,’ said Blouse. ‘Oh, you’re brave, certainly, but what makes you think you stand a chance of passing yourself off as a woman?’

  ‘Well, sir … what?’

  Blouse shook his head. ‘No, they would see through you in a flash. You are a fine bunch of lads, but there is only one man here who’d stand a chance of getting away with it. Manickle?’