《I SHALL WEAR MIDNIGHT》vernon

2、ROUGH MUSIC

　　SHE GOT ONE hour’s sleep before the nightmare began.
　　What she remembered most of all about that evening was the thumping of Mr Petty’s head against the wall and the banisters as she hauled him bodily out of his bed and dragged him by his filthy nightshirt down the stairs. He was a heavy man and half asleep, the other half of him being dead drunk.
　　The important thing was not to give him any time to think, even for one moment, as she towed him behind her like a sack. He was three times her weight, but she knew about leverage. You couldn’t be a witch if you couldn’t manoeuvre someone who was heavier than you. You would never be able to change an invalid’s sheets otherwise. And now he slithered down the last few steps into the cottage’s tiny kitchen, and threw up on the floor.
　　She was quite glad about that; lying in stinking vomit was the very least the man deserved, but she had to be quick to take charge, before he had time to compose himself.
　　The terrified Mrs Petty, a mouse of a woman, had run screaming along the lanes to the village pub as soon as the beating had begun, and Tiffany’s father had sent a lad to wake Tiffany up. Mr Aching was a man with considerable foresight and must have known that the beery cheerfulness after a day at the fair could be the undoing of everybody, and as Tiffany sped towards the cottage on her broom-stick, she had heard the rough music begin.
　　She slapped Petty’s face. ‘Can you hear that?’ she demanded, waving her hand towards
　　the darkened window. ‘Can you hear it? That’s the sound of the rough music, and they are playing it for you, Mister Petty, for you. And they have sticks! And they have stones! They have

　　everything they can pick up, and they have their fists and your daughter’s baby died, Mister Petty. You beat your daughter so hard, Mister Petty, that the baby died, and your wife is being comforted by some of the women and everybody knows that you have done it, everybody knows.’
　　She stared into his bloodshot eyes. His hands had closed automatically into fists because he had always been a man who thought with them. Soon he would try to use them; she knew it, because it was easier to punch than think. Mr Petty had punched his way through life.
　　The rough music was getting nearer slowly, because it’s hard to walk across fields on a dark night when you’ve had a skinful of beer, no matter how righteous you are currently feeling. She had to hope that they did not go into the barn first, because they would hang him there and then. If he was lucky, they would just hang him. When she had looked into the barn and seen that murder had been done, she knew that, without her, it would be done again. She had put a charm on the girl to take her pain away, holding it just above her own shoulder. It was invisible, of course, but in her mind’s eye it burned a fiery orange.
　　‘It was that boy,’ mumbled the man, with vomit trickling down his chest. ‘Coming round here, turning her head so as she wouldn’t listen to her mum or me. And her being only thirteen. It’s a scandal.’
　　‘William is thirteen too,’ said Tiffany, trying to keep her voice level. It was difficult; the
　　rage was bursting to get out. ‘Are you trying to tell me that she was too young for a bit of romance, but young enough to be beaten so hard that she bled from places where no one should bleed?’
　　She couldn’t tell if he had really come to his senses, because the man had so few of them at the best of times, it was hard to know if he had any at all.
　　‘It wasn’t right, what they were doing,’ he said. ‘A man’s got to have discipline in his own house, after all, ain’t that right?’
　　Tiffany could imagine the fiery language in the pub as the overture to the music got wound up. There were not very many weapons in the villages of the Chalk, but there were such things as reaping hooks and scythes and thatching knives and big, big hammers. They weren’t weapons – until you hit somebody with them. And everyone knew about old Petty’s temper, and the number of times his wife told the neighbours that she had got her black eye by walking into a door.
　　Oh,yes – she could imagine the conversation in the pub, with the beer joining in and people remembering where all those things that weren’t weapons were hanging in their sheds. Every man was king in his little castle. Everyone knew about that – well, at least every man – and so you minded your own business when it came to another man’s castle until the castle began to stink, and then you had to do something about it lest all castles should fall. Mr Petty was one of the neighbourhood’s sullen little secrets, but it was not a secret any more.
　　‘I am your only chance, Mr Petty,’ she said. ‘Run away. Grab what you can and run away right now. Run away to where they’ve never heard of you, and then run a bit further, just to be
　　on the safe side, because I will not be able to stop them, do you understand? Personally, I could not care less what happens to your miserable frame but I do not wish to see good people get turned into bad people by doing a murder, so you just leg it across the fields and I won’t remember which wayyou went.’
　　‘You can’t turn me out of my own house,’ he mumbled, finding some drunken defiance.
　　‘You’ve lost your house,your wife,your daughter … and your grandson, Mr Petty. You will find no friends here this night. I am just offering you your life.’

　　‘It was the drink what done it!’ Petty burst out. ‘It was done in drink, miss!’
　　‘But you drank the drink, and then you drank another drink, and another drink,’ she said.
　　‘You drank the drink all day at the fair and you only came back because the drink wanted to go to bed.’ Tiffany could feel only coldness in her heart.
　　‘I’m sorry.’
　　‘Not good enough, Mr Petty, not good enough at all. Go away and become a better person and then, maybe, when you come back as a changed man, people here might find it in their hearts to say hello to you, or at least to nod.’
　　She had been watching his eyes, and she knew the man. Something inside him was boiling up. He was ashamed, bewildered and resentful, and in those circumstances the Pettys of the world struck out.
　　‘Please don’t, Mr Petty,’ she said. ‘Do you have any idea what would happen to you if you hit a witch?’
　　She thought to herself, With those fists,you could probably kill me with a punch and that is why I intend to keep you scared.
　　‘You set the rough music on me, didn’t ya?’
　　She sighed. ‘No one controls the music, Mr Petty,you know that. It just turns up when people have had enough. No one knows where it starts. People look around, and catch one another’s eye, and give each other a little nod, and other people see that. Other people catch their eye and so, very slowly, the music starts and somebody picks up a spoon and bangs it on a plate, and then somebody else bangs a jug on the table and boots start to stamp on the floor, louder and louder. It is the sound of anger, it is the sound of people who have had enough. Do you want to face the music?’
　　‘You think you’re so clever, don’t ya?’ Petty snarled. ‘With your broomstick and your black magic, ordering ordin-ery folks about.’
　　She almost admired him. There he was, with no friends in the world, covered in his own sick and – she sniffed: yes, there was urine dripping from the bottom of his nightshirt – yet he was stupid enough to talk back like that. ‘Not clever, Mr Petty, just cleverer than you. And that’s not hard.’
　　‘Yeah? But clever gets you into trouble. Slip of a gel like you, pokin’ about in other people’s business … What are you going to do when the music comes for you, eh?’
　　‘Run, Mr Petty. Get out of here. It’s your last chance,’ she said. And it probably was; she could hear individual voices now.
　　‘Well, would your majesty let a man put his boots on?’ he said sarcastically. He reached down for them beside the door, but you could read Mr Petty like a very small book, one with fingermarks on all the pages and a piece of bacon as a bookmark.
　　He came up with fists swinging.
　　She took one step backwards, caught his wrist and let the pain out. She felt it flow down her arm, leaving it tingling, into her cupped hand and into Petty: all his daughter’s pain in one second. It flung him clear across the kitchen and it must have burned away everything inside him except animal fear. He rushed at the rickety back door like a bull, broke through it and headed
　　off into the darkness.
　　She staggered back into the barn, where a lamp was burning. According to Granny Weatherwax,you did not feel the pain that you carried, but it was a lie. A necessary lie. You did feel the pain that you carried, and because it wasn’t actuallyyour pain you could somehow bear it, but its departure left you feeling weak and shocked.

　　When the charging, clanging mob arrived, Tiffany was sitting quietly in the barn with the sleeping girl. The noise went all around the house but did not go inside; that was one of the unwritten rules. It was hard to believe that the anarchy of the rough music had rules, but it did; it might go on for three nights, or stop at one, and no one came out of the house when the music was in the air and no one came sneaking home and went back into the house either, unless it was to beg for forgiveness, understanding or ten minutes to pack their bags and run away. The rough music was never organized. It seemed to occur to everybody at once. It played when a village thought that a man had beaten his wife too hard, or his dog too savagely, or if a married man and a married woman forgot that they were married to somebody else. There were other, darker crimes against the music too, but they weren’t talked about openly. Sometimes people could stop the music by mending their ways; quite often they packed up and moved away before the third night.
　　Petty would not have taken the hint; Petty would have come out swinging. And there would have been a fight, and someone would have done something stupid, that is to say even more stupid than what Petty would have done. And then the Baron would find out and people might lose their livelihood, which would mean they would have to leave the Chalk and go for perhaps as much as ten miles to find work and a new life among strangers.
　　Tiffany’s father was a man of keen instinct and he gently opened the barn door a few
　　minutes later when the music was dying down. She knew it was a bit embarrassing for him; he was a well-respected man, but somehow, now, his daughter was more important than he was. A witch did not take orders from anybody, and she knew that he got teased about it by the other men.
　　She smiled and he sat down on the hay next to her while the wild music found nothing to beat, stone or hang. Mr Aching didn’t waste words at the best of times. He looked around and his gaze fell on the little bundle, hastily wrapped in straw and sacking, that Tiffany had put where
　　the girl would not see it. ‘So it’s true, she was with child, then?’
　　‘Yes, Dad.’
　　Tiffany’s father appeared to look at nothing at all. ‘Best if they don’t find him,’ he said after a decent interval.
　　‘Yes,’ said Tiffany.
　　‘Some of the lads were talking about stringing him up. We would have stopped them, of course, but it would have been a bad business, with people taking sides. It’s like poison in a village.’
　　‘Yes.’
　　They sat in silence for a while. Then her father looked down at the sleeping girl. ‘What have you done for her?’ he asked.
　　‘Everything I can,’ said Tiffany.
　　‘And you did that taking-away-pain thingyyou do?’
　　She sighed. ‘Yes, but that’s not all I shall have to take away. I need to borrow a shovel, Dad. I’ll bury the poor little thing down in the woods, where no one will know.’
　　He looked away. ‘I wish it wasn’t you doing this, Tiff. You’re not sixteen yet and I see you running around nursing people and bandaging people and who knows what chores. You shouldn’t have to be doing all of that.’
　　‘Yes, I know,’ said Tiffany.
　　‘Why? ’ he asked again.
　　‘Because other people don’t, or won’t, or can’t, that’s why.’

　　‘But it’s not your business, is it?’
　　‘I make it my business. I’m a witch. It’s what we do. When it’s nobody else’s business, it’s my business,’ Tiffany said quickly.
　　‘Yes, but we all thought it was going to be about whizzing around on brooms and suchlike, not cutting old ladies’ toenails for them.’
　　‘But people don’t understand what’s needed,’ said Tiffany. ‘It’s not that they are bad; it’s just that they don’t think. Take old Mrs Stocking, who’s got nothing in the world except her cat and a whole lot of arthritis. People were getting her a bite to eat often enough, that is true, but no one was noticing that her toenails were so long they were tangling up inside her boots and so she’d not been able to take them off for a year! People around here are OK when it comes to
　　food and the occasional bunch of flowers, but they are not around when things get a little on the messy side. Witches notice these things. Oh, there’s a certain amount of whizzing about, that’s true enough, but mostly it’s only to get quickly to somewhere there is a mess.’
　　Her father shook his head. ‘And you like doing this?’
　　‘Yes.’
　　‘Why?’
　　Tiffany had to think about this, her father’s eyes never leaving her face. ‘Well, Dad,you know how Granny Aching always used to say, “Feed them as is hungry, clothe them as is naked, and speak up for them as has no voices”? Well, I reckon there is room in there for “Grasp for them as can’t bend, reach for them as can’t stretch, wipe for them as can’t twist”, don’t you? And because sometimes you get a good day that makes up for all the bad days and, just for a moment,you hear the world turning,’ said Tiffany. ‘I can’t put it any other way.’
　　Her father looked at her with a kind of proud puzzlement. ‘And you think that’s worth it, do you?’
　　‘Yes, Dad!’
　　‘Then I am proud of you, jiggit,you are doing a man’s job!’
　　He’d used the pet name only the family knew, and so she kissed him politely and did not tell him that he was unlikely to see a man doing the job that she did.
　　‘What are you all going to do about the Pettys?’ she asked.
　　‘Your mum and me could take Mrs Petty and her daughter in and …’ Mr Aching paused and gave her a strange look, as if she frightened him. ‘It’s never simple, my girl. Seth Petty was a decent enough lad when we were young. Not the brightest piggy in the litter, I’ll grant you that, but decent enough in his way. It was his dad who was a madman; I mean, things were a bit rough and ready in those days and you could expect a clip around the head if you disobeyed, but Seth’s dad had a thick leather belt with two buckles on it, and he would lay into Seth just for looking at him in a funny way. No word of a lie. Always used to say that he would teach him a lesson.’
　　‘It seems that he succeeded,’ Tiffany said, but her father held up a hand.
　　‘And then there was Molly,’ he went on. ‘You couldn’t say that Molly and Seth were made for one another, because in truth neither of them were rightly made for anybody, but I suppose they were sort of happy together. In those days, Seth was a drover, driving the flocks all the way to the big city sometimes. It wasn’t the kind of job you needed much learning for, and it might be that some of the sheep were a bit brighter than he was, but it was a job that needed doing, and he picked up a wage and no one thought the worse of him for that. The trouble was, that meant he left Molly alone for weeks at a time, and …’ Tiffany’s father paused here, looking embarrassed.
　　‘I know what you’re going to tell me,’ said Tiffany, to help him out, but he took care to

　　ignore this.
　　‘It’s not that she was a bad girl,’ he said. ‘It’s just that she never really understood what it was all about, and there wasn’t anyone to tell her, and you got all kinds of strangers and
　　travellers passing through all the time. Quite handsome chaps, some of them.’
　　Tiffany took pity on him, sitting there looking miserable, embarrassed about telling his little girl things his little girl shouldn’t know.
　　So she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek again. ‘I know, Dad, I really do know. Amber isn’t actually his daughter, right?’
　　‘Well, I never said that, did I? She might be,’ said her father awkwardly.
　　And that would be the trick, wouldn’t it, Tiffany thought. Maybe if Seth Petty had known one way or the other, he might have come to terms with the perhaps. Maybe. You never know.
　　But he didn’t know, either, and there would be some days when he thought he did know and some days when he thought the worst. And for a man like Petty, who was a stranger to thinking, the dark thoughts would roll around in his head until they tangled up his brain. And when the brain stops thinking, the fist steps in.
　　Her father was watching her very closely. ‘You know about this sort of thing?’ he said.
　　‘We call it going round the houses. Every witch does it. Please try and understand me, Dad. I have seen horrible things, and some of them all the more horrible because they were, well, normal. All the little secrets behind closed doors, Dad. Good things and nasty things I am not going to tell you about. It’s just part of being a witch! You learn to sense things.’
　　‘Well,you know, life is not exactly a bed of roses for any of us …’ her father began.
　　‘There was the time when—’
　　‘There was this old woman up near Slice,’ Tiffany interrupted him. ‘And she died in her bed. Nothing particularly bad about that, really: she had just run out of life. But she lay there for two months before anyone wondered what had happened. They are a bit strange over in Slice. The worst part of it was that her cats couldn’t get out and started eating her; I mean, she was
　　cat-mad and probably would not have minded, but one of them had kittens in her bed. In her actual bed. It was really very difficult to find the kittens homes in places where people hadn’t already heard the story. They were beautiful kittens too, lovely blue eyes.’
　　‘Er,’ her father began. ‘When you say “in her bed”,you mean …’
　　‘With her still in it,yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’ve had to deal with dead people,yes. You throw up a bit first time, and then you just realize that death is, well, part of life. It is not so bad if you think of it as a list of things to do, and do them one at a time. You might have a bit of a cry as well, but that’s all part of it.’
　　‘Didn’t anyone help you?’
　　‘Oh, a couple of ladies helped me when I knocked on their doors, but really she was nobody’s business. It can happen like that. People disappear in the cracks.’ She paused. ‘Dad, we’re still not using the old stone barn, are we? Can you get some of the lads to clean it out for me?’
　　‘Of course,’ said her father. ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’
　　Tiffany heard his politeness; he was talking to a witch. ‘I think I’m having a kind of
　　idea,’ she said. ‘And I think I can make good use of that barn. It’s only a thought, and it won’t do any harm to have it tidied up in any case.’
　　‘Well, I still feel mightily proud when I see you rushing all over the place on that broomstick of yours,’ said her father. ‘That’s magic, isn’t it?’
　　Everyone wants magic to exist, Tiffany thought to herself, and what can you say? No,

　　there isn’t? Or: Yes, there is, but it’s not what you think? Everyone wants to believe that we can change the world by snapping our fingers. ‘The dwarfs make them,’ she said. ‘I don’t have a clue how they work. Staying on them, that’s the trick.’
　　The rough music had died down now, possibly because there was nothing for it to do, or perhaps because – and this was quite likely– if the rough musicians got back to the pub soon, there might be time for another drink before it closed.
　　Mr Aching stood up. ‘I think we should take this girl home, don’t you?’
　　‘Young woman,’ corrected Tiffany, leaning over her.
　　‘What?’
　　‘Young woman,’ said Tiffany. ‘She deserves that, at least. And I think I should take her somewhere else first. She needs more help than I can give her. Can you please go and scrounge some rope? I’ve got a leather strap on the broomstick, of course, but I don’t think it will be enough.’ She heard a rustling from the hayloft above, and smiled. Some friends could be so reliable.
　　But Mr Aching looked shocked. ‘You are taking her away?’
　　‘Not far. I have to. But look, don’t worry. If Mum makes up an extra bed I’ll soon have her back.’
　　Her father lowered his voice. ‘It’s them, isn’t it? Do they still follow you?’
　　‘Well,’ Tiffany said, ‘they say they don’t, but you know what little liars the Nac Mac
　　Feegle are!’
　　It had been a long day, and not a good one, otherwise she would not have been so unfair, but – strangely– there was no giveaway reply from above. To her surprise, a lack of Feegle was suddenly almost as distressing as an overdose.
　　And then, to her delight, a small voice said, ‘Ha ha ha, she didnae catch us oot that time, aye, lads? We kept as quiet as little mices! The big wee hag didnae suspect a thing! Lads? Lads?’
　　‘Daft Wullie, I swear ye dinnae have enough brains to blow your nose,’ said a similar but angry voice. ‘What part o’ “nae one is tae say one wee word” did ye nae understand? Och, crivens!’
　　This last remark was followed by the sounds of a scuffle.
　　Mr Aching glanced nervously at the roof and leaned closer. ‘You know your mother is very worried about you? You know she’s just been a grandma again. She’s very proud of them all. And you too, of course,’ he added hurriedly. ‘But all this witchy business, well, that’s not the sort of thing a young man looks for in a wife. And now that you and young Roland …’
　　Tiffany dealt with this. Dealing was part of witchcraft too. Her father looked so miserable that she put on her cheerful face and said, ‘If I was you, Dad, I would go home and get a decent night’s sleep. I’ll sort things out. Actually, there’s a coil of rope over there, but I’m certain I won’t need to use it now.’
　　He looked relieved at this. The Nac Mac Feegle could be pretty worrying to those who did not know them very well, although now she thought about it, they could be pretty worrying however long you had known them; a Feegle in your life very soon changed it.
　　‘Have you been here all this time?’ she demanded, as soon as her father had hurried off. For a moment it rained bits of hay and whole Feegles.
　　The problem with getting angry at Nac Mac Feegles was that it was like getting angry at cardboard or the weather; it didn’t make any difference. She had a go anyway, because by now it was sort of traditional.
　　‘Rob Anybody! You promised not to spy on me!’

　　Rob held up a hand. ‘Ah weel, there ye have it, right enough, but it is one of them miss apprehensions, miss, ’cause we wasn’t spying at all, was we, lads?’
　　The mass of little blue and red shapes that now covered the floor of the barn raised their
　　voices in a chorus of blatant lying and perjury. It slowed down when they saw her expression.
　　‘Why is it, Rob Anybody, that you persist in lying when you are caught red-handed?’
　　‘Ah weel, that’s an easy one, miss,’ said Rob Anybody, who was technically the head man of the Nac Mac Feegles. ‘After all,ye ken, what would be the point of lyin’ when you had nae done anything wrong? Anyway, now I am mortally wounded to my giblets on account of me good name being slandered,’ he said, grinning. ‘How many times have I lied to you, miss?’
　　‘Seven hundred and fifty-three times,’ said Tiffany. ‘Every time you promise not to interfere in my business.’
　　‘Ah weel,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘ye are still our big wee hag.’
　　‘That may or may not be the case,’ said Tiffany haughtily, ‘but I am a lot more big and considerably less wee than I used to be.’
　　‘And a lot more hag,’ said a jolly voice. Tiffany did not have to look to know who was talking. Only Daft Wullie could put his foot in it as far up as his neck. She looked down at his beaming little face. And he never did quite understand what it was that he was doing wrong.
　　Hag! It didn’t sound pretty, but every witch was a hag to the Feegles, however young she
　　was. They didn’t mean anything by it – well, probably didn’t mean anything by it, but you could never tell for certain – and sometimes Rob Anybody grinned when he said it, but it was not their fault that to anyone not six inches tall the word meant someone who combed her hair with a rake and had worse teeth than an old sheep. Being called a hag when you are nine can be sort of funny. It isn’t quite so amusing when you are nearly sixteen and have had a very bad day and very little sleep and could really, really do with a bath.
　　Rob Anybody clearly noticed this, because he turned to his brother and said, ‘Ye will bring to mind, brother o’ mine, that there was times when ye should stick your head up a duck’s bottom rather than talk?’
　　Daft Wullie looked down at his feet. ‘Sorry, Rob. I couldnae find a duck the noo.’
　　The head man of the Feegles glanced down at the girl on the floor, sleeping gently under her blanket, and suddenly everything was serious.
　　‘If we had been here when that leathering was happening, it would have been a bad day for him, I’ll tell ye,’ said Rob Anybody.
　　‘Just as well that you weren’t here then,’ said Tiffany. ‘You don’t want to find people
　　coming up to your mound with shovels, do you? You keep away from bigjobs,you hear me? You make them nervous. When people get nervous, they get angry. But since you’re here you can make yourselves useful. I want to get this poor girl up to the mound.’
　　‘Aye, we know,’ said Rob. ‘Was it not the kelda herself who was sending us down here to find you?’
　　‘She knew about this? Jeannie knew about this?’
　　‘I dinnae ken,’ said Rob nervously. He always got nervous when talking about his wife, Tiffany knew. He loved her to distraction, and the thought of her even frowning in his direction turned his knees to jelly. The life of all the other Feegles was generally about fighting, stealing and boozing, with a few extra bits like getting food, which they mostly stole, and doing the laundry, which they mostly did not do. As the kelda’s husband, Rob Anybody had to do the Explaining as well, and that was never an easy job for a Feegle. ‘Jeannie has the kenning o’ things,ye ken,’ he said, not looking directly at Tiffany. She felt sorry for him then; it must be

　　better to be between a rock and a hard place than to be between a kelda and a hag, she thought.