Wintersmith

idea?”
    “No!”
    “Well, it’s turned up for you, madam, and it’s dangerous!”
    Tiffany gingerly picked up the Cornucopia, and again there was that definite feeling of some hugely heavy thing pretending, very successfully, to be light.
    “Maybe it needs some magic word,” suggested Nanny Ogg. “Or there’s somewhere special that you press….”
    As Tiffany turned it in the light, something gleamed for a moment.
    “Hold on, these look like words,” she said. She read:
    All that you desire, I give upon a name , murmured the memory of Dr. Bustle.
    The next line said:
    I grow, I shrink, Dr. Bustle translated.
    “I think I might have an idea,” she said, and in memory of Miss Treason she declared: “Ham sandwich!”
    Nothing happened.
    Then Dr. Bustle lazily translated, and Tiffany said:
    With a fwlap a ham sandwich sailed out of the mouth of the Cornucopia and was expertly caught by Nanny, who bit into it.
    “Not bad at all!” she announced. “Try a few more.”
    said Tiffany, and there was the kind of sound you get when you disturb a cave full of bats.
    “Stop!” she yelled, but nothing stopped. Then Dr. Bustle whispered and she shouted:
    There were a…lot of sandwiches. The pile reached the ceiling, in fact. Only the tip of Nanny Ogg’s hat was visible, but there were some muffled noises farther down the heap.
    An arm thrust out, and Nanny Ogg forced her way through the wall of bread and sliced pig, chewing thoughtfully.
    “No mustard, I notice. Hmm. Well, we can see that everyone around here has a good supper tonight,” she said. “And I can see I’m going to have to make an awful lot of soup, too. Best not to try it again in here, though, all right?”
    “I don’t like it at all,” snapped Granny Weatherwax. “Where does all that stuff come from, eh? Magic food never fed anyone properly!”
    “It’s not magic, it’s a god thing,” said Nanny Ogg. “Like manners from heaven, that sort of stuff. I expect it’s made out of raw firmament.”
    In fact it’s merely a living metaphor for the boundless fecundity of the natural world, whispered Dr. Bustle in Tiffany’s head.
    “You don’t get manners from heaven,” said Granny.
    “This was in foreign parts, a long time ago,” said Nanny, turning to Tiffany. “If I was you, dear, I’d take it out into the woods tomorrow and see what it can do. Although, if you don’t mind, I could really do with some fresh grapes right now.”
    “Gytha Ogg, you can’t use the Cornucopia of the Gods as a…a larder!” said Granny. “The feet business was bad enough!”
    “But it is one,” said Nanny Ogg innocently. “It’s the larder. It’s, like, everything waiting to grow next spring.”
    Tiffany put it down very carefully. There was something…alive about the Cornucopia. She wasn’t at all sure that it was just some magical tool. It seemed to be listening.
    As it touched the tabletop, it began to shrink until it was the size of a small vase.
    “’Scuse me?” said Rob Anybody. “But does it do beer?”
    “Beer?” said Tiffany, without thinking.
    There was a trickling noise. All eyes turned to look at the vase. Brown liquid was foaming over the lip.
    Then all the eyes turned to Granny Weatherwax, who shrugged.
    “Don’t look at me,” she said sourly. “You’re going to drink it anyway!”
    It is alive, Tiffany thought, as Nanny Ogg hurried off to find some more mugs. It learns. It’s learned my language….

    Around midnight, Tiffany woke up because a white chicken was standing on her chest. She pushed it off and reached down for her slippers, and found only chickens. When she got the candle alight, she saw half a dozen chickens on the end of the bed. The floor was covered in chickens. So were the stairs. So was every room down below. In the kitchen, chickens had overflowed into the sink.
    They weren’t making much noise, just the occasional werk a chicken makes when it’s a bit uncertain about things, which is more or less all the time.
    The chickens were shuffling along patiently to make room. Werk. They were doing this because the Cornucopia, now grown just a bit bigger than a full-grown chicken, was gently firing out a chicken every eight seconds. Werk.
    As Tiffany watched, another one landed on the mountain of ham sandwiches. Werk.
    Marooned on top of the Cornucopia was You, looking very puzzled. Werk. And in the middle of the floor Granny Weatherwax snored gently in the big armchair, surrounded by fascinated hens.