This is the final novel in a shorter
series set within Pratchett’s larger Discworld fantasy series. These novels
focus on a young witch named Tiffany Aching who starts out as a child, just
discovering her magical power, and end with Tiffany finally taking full control
of her power and owning her place in the world.
I
wanted to study this novel despite its weaknesses because Tiffany’s story is
built on houses. Her story really begins with the death of her grandmother, a
shepherd and unacknowledged witch who lived up on the downs in a shepherd’s
hut. Granny Aching’s hut is burned after her death, leaving only the axles and
wheels and a pot-belled iron stove. For her education, Tiffany leaves her
parents’ home and goes to study with other witches, living in their houses and
working for them. But this novel begins with Tiffany’s mentor, Granny
Weatherwax, also dying, and leaving her house—and the associated work of taking
care of the villagers around it—to Tiffany.
Splitting
her time between Granny Weatherwax’s workload and Tiffany’s home workload
overwhelms and exhausts Tiffany, so a great deal of the novel involves her
running back and forth and trying to be everywhere at once. The ending has
Tiffany finally choosing and deciding to give away Granny Weatherwax’s house
and going back up to the downs where her own Granny Aching lived, building
herself a new shepherd’s hut using Granny Aching’s old hut’s wheels, and
settling down there.
What
is a house? In this world, a witch’s house isn’t just a place to live. It
carries a weight of obligation to all the people around it. It’s a job and a
responsibility. Granny Weatherwax’s house includes her bees, her garden, and
even her old boots, so that someone stepping into Granny’s place really is
trying to fill her shoes. Granny’s place is also a tremendous honor, since
she’s the de facto leader of all the witches. By willing her house and her
position to Tiffany, Granny Weatherwax also gives Tiffany a tremendous
compliment.
This
book is the last chapter we’re ever going to get in the Discworld series, since
the author died even before its publication. The conclusion feels especially
portentous because of it. Tiffany unites her two divergent strands of history
by coming back home and taking over the location that has always belonged to
her grandmother, who is actually buried right there. By building her own
shepherd’s hut, Tiffany refuses to live in anyone else’s house, even the house
of the most powerful witch, even when that house comes with great respect.
I’m
still thinking a lot about houses in fiction, houses that make us into who we
are, houses that confine, protect, express, and tie down. I can’t think of
another instance in fiction where someone rejects a house they were given. I’m
sure my own circumstances, and the book I’m working on right now, are affecting
how I see houses in general, but it’s interesting to think about how difficult
it must be to look a gift house in the mouth. We don’t inherit houses as a
rule, these days. People die and their houses are sold, so that we aren’t
pulled into that cycle of tradition and obligation. Instead, we go out and
choose the house we want to live in. Houses are choices embodied. As a renter,
it’s easy (and extremely fun) to look at an available house and imagine myself
living there, mentally arrange all of my furniture around the place, consider
the direction of sunlight and the logistics of groceries and snow plowing. But
it’s almost like trying on clothes in a store. If it doesn’t fit, no big deal.
A renter isn’t committed. Apartments are the same, a space that by definition
is impermanent. A motel room can be perfectly suitable for overnight, but it
would be impossible to imagine living there happily long term.
As
someone slightly obsessed with houses, I’ve read a lot lately about the “tiny
house” movement: hand made mobile, self-contained homes on wheels. What a
bizarre but fascinating movement! The aesthetic appeal is clear, with the
custom woodwork and design features, and of course Tiffany’s shepherd hut is
well represented in the tiny house movement, where actual shepherd’s huts like
hers appear. The other main point of appeal is that these houses are on wheels
and movable. Someone can own a house, but without the dictates of land and the
limitations of location. These houses are built on trailers to get around local
ordinances about minimum size for permanent housing, but also so that the
owners can take them on the road. Looking at the interiors is an exercise in
mentally getting rid of accumulated stuff, something that always leads me to
think: “This would be great if it were ten times the size and built on an
actual foundation, with bookshelves, storage space, plumbing, electricity,
cable internet, a washer, a dryer, and a yard.” In other words, an actual
house. I admire these exquisitely designed and compact living spaces, and then
remember a) I moved in a 26 foot truck the last time (though I asked for 22—they
were out), which is much bigger than any tiny house, an insuperable
mathematical difficulty to be sure, and b) I’m incredibly claustrophobic. Tiny
houses sell the dream of having only the essentials, living a compact and low
impact life, being frugal and careful and minimalist. Nothing makes me more
aware of my maximalist tendencies.
Tiny
houses are dollhouses for people. They’re miniaturized and idealized versions
of real places to live, and as such, more of a way of thinking about our lives
than realistic places to live. Fiction works the same way, especially this kind
of fiction, set in a fantasy world. And within fiction, fictional houses
express the shape of the world as it fits around us. The gothic novel sees the
world fitting around us in terrifying ways, constricting, endangering, or
confining us. These fantasy novels see the world fitting around us in ways that
express obligation and responsibility, as well as history and tradition. What
is a house? For this novel, a house carries all of that, including expectation
and plans for the future. I’m very glad that Tiffany Aching finally got a house
of her own, after bouncing from place to place for six novels, but I’m also
glad that it’s on wheels.
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