Tiffany aching complete.., p.117
Tiffany Aching Complete Collection, page 117
“You dare threaten me?” she said. “Here in my own realm, you worm? When I could shrivel your heart within you with just a word? Or have you dropped where you stand?” She gestured to the guards standing ready with their crossbows aimed at the goblin.
“I is no worm for you, Queenie. I have the swarf. Tiny bits of steel that can float in the air. But I is here to bring news. A warning. Of the Lathe the Swarf still has fancy for the old days. I likes to see humans squirm. Likes to see you fairy folk stirring things up, I does. Some goblins thinks as I does, but not so many now. Some goblins almost not goblins now. Almost human. I don’t likes it but they says the times they is a-changing. The money is good, see, Queenie.”
“Money?” sneered the Queen. “I give you goblins money, you wor—” She paused as she saw the goblin’s hand move into his pocket. Could the horrible little creature really be bringing iron into her world? Iron—a terrible substance for any of the fairy folk. Painful. Destructive. It blinded, deafened, made an elf feel more alone than any human could ever feel. She finished her sentence with gritted teeth. “Worthy creature.”
“Gold as melts away as sun rises,” said the goblin. “They—we—gets real money now. I just wants goblins to remain goblins. Goblins with status. Respect. Not pushed around no more by you or anyone else.” He glared at Peaseblossom, who had suddenly stepped to the side of the Queen.
“I don’t believe you,” said the Queen.
“Your funeral, Queenie,” said the goblin. “Don’t believe me. Go to gate. Not so much trouble now old witch gone. You sees for yourself. World has changed, Queenie.”
And the Queen thought, Changed, yes. She had felt the tremors, known something momentous was afoot, but not known exactly what. So the old witch was gone. With no hag to stop them, why, she realized, we can ride through in splendor once more. Then her face fell. Except for this . . . swarf. This iron.
“Bind this maggot’s arms behind him,” she ordered her guards, pointing at the goblin. “I wish to see if he speaks true. And he will ride with us. . . .” She smiled. “If he speaks false, we will tear out his tongue.”
Next morning, alone in Granny Weatherwax’s cottage—her cottage, now—Tiffany woke early knowing that her world had changed. You was watching her like a hawk.
She sighed. It was going to be a busy day. She had been in many houses where death had recently visited, and always the lady of the house, if there was one, would be shining anything that shined and cleaning everything that could be cleaned. And so, with rags and polishing cloths, Tiffany Aching cleaned everything that was already spick-and-span clean: it was a kind of unspoken mantra—the world had gone bad, but at least the grate had been polished and now had a fire ready to light in it.
All the time, like a statue, there was You, staring at her. Did cats know about death? she wondered. What about the cats of witches? Especially . . . what about Granny Weatherwax’s cat?
Tiffany tidied that thought away for now and started on the kitchen, burnishing anything that could be burnished, and yes, it shone. She was cleaning things already clean, but the algebra of mourning required the effort of getting all the death out of the house; and there was no shrinking from it: you cleaned everything, regardless.
She’d finished in the kitchen and the scullery, leaving everything so bright that her eyes watered, and then there was nothing for it but to go upstairs. On her hands and knees, with bucket and brush and rags and grease—that is, elbow grease—Tiffany cleaned and cleaned until her knuckles were red and she was satisfied.
But that wasn’t the end of it: there was Granny’s small wardrobe, with its few well-worn and serviceable dresses hanging in there along with a cloak. All black, of course. Tucked away on a shelf was the Zephyr Billow Cloak Tiffany herself had given Granny—unworn, as far as she could see, but kept carefully, like a special possession. She felt her eyes begin to prickle. . . .
Beside the bed were Granny Weatherwax’s boots. Good, serviceable boots, Tiffany thought. And Granny had hated waste. But . . . to actually wear them? She was going to find it hard enough to follow in Granny’s footsteps. She swallowed. She was sure she could find a good home for the boots. In the meantime, well, she poked forward a toe and pushed them out of sight, beneath the bed.
Then of course there was the kitchen garden and, above all, the herbs. Tiffany found a pair of heavy gloves in the scullery—you didn’t go into Granny’s herbs without heavy gloves until they knew you. Granny had foraged, bartered and been given herbs from just about everywhere, and she had Rotating Spinach, and Doubting Plums, Ginny Come Nether, Twirlabout, Tickle My Fancy Root, Jump in the Basin and Jack-go-to-bed-and-never-get-up, Daisy-upsy-Daisy and Old Man Root. There was a clump of Love Lies Oozing by the Jack by Moonlight and a very active Maiden’s Respite. Tiffany did not know what all of them were for; she would have to ask Nanny Ogg. Or Magrat Garlick, who—like her husband Verence, the King of Lancre—was very enthusiastic about herbs.* Though unlike her husband, Magrat did actually know her Troubling Tony from her Multitude Root.
It was never easy being a witch. Oh, the broomstick was great, but to be a witch you needed to be sensible, so sensible that sometimes it hurt. You dealt with the reality—not what people wanted. The reality right now was suddenly You, meowing and banging her head against Tiffany’s legs, demanding food, which she then ignored completely when Tiffany went back into the kitchen and placed a dish of it down for her on the floor.
Tiffany went outdoors again and fed the chickens, let the goats out to graze, had a word with the bees, and then thought, I’ve done my bit. The place is spotless, the bees are happy, even the lean-to is clean. If Nanny can come in and feed the animals, keep an eye on You, then I can go back home for a few days. . . .
Reaching the Chalk after a flight that was long and, sadly, very wet, since the rain was teeming down,* she flew to the house of young Milly Robinson, the Feegles clinging on behind, under and actually on her in their usual style.
Milly’s two baby boys looked well fed, but the little girl—baby Tiffany—didn’t. Unfortunately Witch Tiffany was used to this sort of thing, especially when the mothers weren’t very clever or had bossy mothers and thought feeding the boys was the main thing in life. It was why, just after the baby’s birth, she had whispered that spell into the baby’s ear. A simple tracking magic, so she would know if any harm befell the little girl. Just a precaution, she had told herself at the time.
There was no use getting nasty about all this, so she took the young woman aside and said, “Milly, listen. Yes, your boys have to be straight and strong when they grow up, but my mother always used to say to me: Your son’s your son until he takes a wife, but your daughter is your daughter all of your life. And I think that’s right enough. You help your mother out still, don’t you? And she helps you. So fair shares for the little girl is the right thing to do. Please.” Then, because the carrot—or in this case, the breast milk—sometimes needed to be accompanied by the stick, she added sternly, the pointy hat making her seem older and wiser than she would otherwise appear, “I shall be watching after her interests.” A little bit of menace often did the trick, she had learned. And, of course, she would watch.
Then there was only one person she wanted to talk to; and the rain was getting harder still as her stick drifted down toward the Feegle mound on the hill, Rob and the other Feegles toppling off as she approached. Daft Wullie made a spectacularly bad landing, headfirst into the gorse, and a rabble of young Feegles rushed up joyously to unscrew him.
There were a couple of Rob’s older sons lounging around outside the entrance. They were scrawny, even by Feegle standards, with barely a wisp of beard hair between them and impractically low-slung spogs knocking about their knees, their kilts hung low on their skinny hips. To Tiffany’s amazement, she could see the top bands of colored pants riding high above them. Pants? On a Feegle? The times were indeed changing.
“Pull yon kilts up, lads!” Rob muttered as they pushed their way past.
The kelda was in her chamber, surrounded by Feegle babies, all rolling around on a floor covered with the fleeces of sheep gone to another land. And the first words she said were, “I know . . .” She sighed and added, “It’s grieving I am, but the wheel takes all in time.” Her face crinkled into a huge smile. “It’s happy I am to see you as leader of the witches, Tiffan.”
“Well, thank you,” said Tiffany. How did Jeannie know? she wondered for a moment. But every kelda used the way of the hiddlins to see things past, present, and future . . . and it was a secret known only to the keldas, passed down one to the other.
She understood too that although Jeannie was very small, she was someone to whom she could tell every secret, in the assurance that it would never be passed on to anyone. And now she hesitantly said, “Jeannie, I don’t think I could ever fill her boots.”
“Really?” said the kelda sharply. “Dinna you think Esmerelda Weatherwax may nae have kenned the same thing when the position was gi’n to her? Do ye suppose yon hag then said, ‘Nae me. I’m nae guid enough’?” The wise little pictsie was looking at Tiffany as if she was some kind of specimen, a new plant perhaps, and then she lowered her voice and said, “I ken well enough that ye will be a guid leader.”
“Though only the first among equals rather than a leader,” Tiffany added. “At least, I’m sure that’s what the other witches think. . . .” Her voice trailed off, her doubts hanging in the air.
“Is that so?” said the kelda. She went quiet for a moment, then said softly, “Ye who kissed the spirit of winter and sent him packing, aye. Yet I ken that ye have in front of ye something less easy, Tiffan. There is a change coming in the heavens, and ye will need to be there.” Her voice grew even more somber and her small eyes were fixed on Tiffany now. “Be aware, Tir-far-thóinn; this is a time of transition,” she said. “Mistress Weatherwax is nae longer wi’ us, and her goin’ leaves a . . . hole that others will nae fail to see. We mus’ watch the gateways, and ye mus’ tak’ great care. For them ye don’t wish to know might be seeking ye out.”
It was good to be home, Tiffany thought, when at last she arrived there. Back at her parents’ farm—it was even called Home Farm—back where her mother cooked a hot dinner every night. Back where she could sit at the big wooden kitchen table, which was scarred by generations of Achings, and become a little girl again.
But she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a witch. One with two steadings to look after. And over the next week as she flew back and forth from the Chalk to Lancre, from Lancre to the Chalk, in weather that seemed to be enjoying a competition to be the wettest ever for the time of year, it seemed to her that she was always arriving late, wet, and tired. People were nearly always polite—to her face, anyway, and certainly to the pointy hat—but she could tell from what they didn’t say that somehow, indefinably, whatever she did, it wasn’t quite enough. She got up earlier every day and went to bed later, but it still wasn’t enough.
She needed to be a good witch. A strong witch. And in between the carrying and the healing, the helping and the listening, she could feel sudden prickles of alarm run up and down her body. Jeannie had warned her that something dreadful might be coming. . . . Would she be up to the job? She didn’t even think she was doing very well with all the usual stuff.
She couldn’t be Granny Weatherwax for them in Lancre.
And it was getting harder and harder to be Tiffany Aching for the Chalk.
Even at home. Even there. She struggled in wearily one night, longing for food, peace, and her bed, and as her mother pulled a huge pot from the big black oven and placed it in the center of the table, a family row was just starting.
“I met Sid Pigeon outside the Baron’s Arms today,” her brother Wentworth, a strapping lad not quite old enough for the pub yet, but certainly old enough to hang around outside, was saying.
“Sid Pigeon?” Mrs. Aching wondered.
“The younger of the two Pigeon brothers,” her father said.
Younger, thought Tiffany. That counted for a lot in farming country. It meant the older brother got the farm. Though if she remembered correctly, the Pigeon farm was a pretty poor place, not very well run. Wasn’t Mr. Pigeon a regular at the Baron’s Arms? She tried to remember Mrs. Pigeon, and failed. But yes, she remembered Sid. She’d seen him only a few weeks back, up near Twoshirts—a small boy who had seemingly grown into his name when someone had given him a peaked cap and a whistle to hang around his neck.
“He was telling me about them railway jobs,” Wentworth went on enthusiastically. “He’s earning good money, is Sid. Says they need more men. It’s the future, Dad. Railways, not sheep!”
“Don’t get any daft ideas, lad,” his father warned. “Railways is for them as don’t take on land to farm. Not like us Achings. Not like you. You know what your future holds for you. It’s right here, where it’s always been for an Aching lad.”
“But—” Wentworth wasn’t happy. Tiffany shot him a look. She knew how he felt. And after all, she herself wasn’t doing what had been expected of her, was she? If she had, she’d be getting married about now, like her sisters had, getting ready to produce a few more grandchildren for her mother to fuss over.
Her mother seemed to be thinking of the same thing. “You always seem to be somewhere else these days,” she said, changing the subject from Wentworth to Tiffany, trying hard not to sound like she was complaining. “I wish you could be with us more, Tiff,” she added a bit sadly.
“Don’t bother the lass. She’s some kind of top witch now, you know. She can’t be everywhere,” her father said.
Feeling like a little girl, Tiffany said, “I try to be around here as much as possible, but we don’t really have enough witches to do the work that’s needed.”
Her mother smiled nervously and said, “I know you work hard, dear. There’s lots of people who stop me in the road to say that my girl has helped their kid or their father. Everybody sees that you are running about like nobody’s business. And you know what people are saying? They are saying to me, you are growing up like your granny. After all, she used to tell the Baron what to do. And you do the same.”
“Well, Granny Aching wasn’t a witch,” said Tiffany.
“That depends,” said her father, turning away from Wentworth, who stomped out and slammed the kitchen door behind him. Joe Aching looked after him for a moment, then sighed and winked at Tiffany. “There are surely different kinds of witches. You remember how your granny wanted the shepherd’s hut burned down once she was dead? ‘Burn everything,’ she told me.” He smiled and said, “I almost did what I was told. But there was a thing she had and it was not for the burning, so I wrapped it up and now, seeing you, my girl, here’s a little memento from Granny Aching.”
To Tiffany’s surprise her father was crying, under his smiles, as he gave her a little package wrapped up in crinkled paper and tied with a piece of old wool. She opened it and turned the little ridged object over in her hand.
“It’s a shepherd’s crown,” she said. “I’ve seen them before—they are quite easy to find.”
Joe Aching laughed and said, “Not this one. Your granny said it was special—the crown of crowns. And if the Shepherd of Shepherds picked it up, it would turn into gold. Look, beneath the gray you can see the hints of gold.”
Tiffany looked at the little object while she ate her stew, made as only her mother could make it, and she thought about the days when Granny Aching would come down to the farm for a meal.
It seemed to some that the old woman had lived on Jolly Sailor tobacco; and there was no doubt about it—when it came to sheep, Granny Aching knew everything. But the mind starts running all by itself and Tiffany thought about all the things Granny had done and the things that Granny had said. Then the memories came as a cavalcade, whether she wanted them or not, settling on her like snow.
Tiffany thought of the times she had walked with her granny. Mostly in silence, sometimes with Thunder and Lightning—Granny Aching’s sheepdogs—at their heels. She had learned a lot from the old woman.
She taught me so much, she said to herself. She built me as we were walking around after the sheep, and she told me all those things that I needed to know, and the first thing was to look after people. Of course, the other thing had been to look after the sheep.
And all she had ever asked for was her shepherd’s hut and some horrible tobacco.
Tiffany dropped her spoon. It was all right to sob in this familiar kitchen like she had when she was a girl.
Immediately, her father was there beside her. “You can do a lot, jigget, but no one could do it all.”
“Yes,” said her mother. “And we keep your bed ready every day. And we know you are doing a lot of good and I am proud when I see you flying around. But you can’t do everything for everybody. Don’t go out again tonight. Please.”
“We like seeing our girl, but it’d be nice to see her properly and not always in a blur,” her father added, putting his arm around her.
They finished their dinner in silence, a warm silence, and as Tiffany prepared to go up the stairs to her childhood bedroom, Mrs. Aching stood and pulled out an envelope from where she had tucked it out of the way on the dresser, among the blue and white jars that, surprisingly in a working farm kitchen, were simply for show. “There’s a letter here for you. From Preston, I expect.” Her tone was very mother-ish now; she only had to say “Preston” and there was a question there.
And Tiffany crept up the stairs, feeling the care and love of her parents flowing around her, and into her room, relishing the familiar creak of the boards. She placed the shepherd’s crown on the shelf by her few books—a new treasure—and pulled on her nightdress wearily. Tonight, she decided, she would try to forget her fears, allow herself to just be Tiffany Aching for a while. Not Tiffany Aching, the Witch of the Chalk.
Then, while there was still light to see, she read Preston’s letter, and the weariness fled for a moment, replaced by a wave of sheer happiness. Preston’s letter was wonderful! Filled with new language, new words—today he wrote about taking up a scalpel—“such a sharp, strong word”—and how he had learned a new way to suture. “Suture,” Tiffany said quietly to herself. A soft word, so much smoother than “scalpel,” almost healing. And in a way she needed healing. Healing from the loss of Granny Weatherwax, healing from the strain of too much to do—and healing from the effort of trying to match the expectations of the other witches.
