Tiffany aching complete.., p.133
Tiffany Aching Complete Collection, page 133
“Remember, I want you to keep it in one piece,” she was saying sternly.
Then, within minutes, it was a melee. In fact, a melee of melees. There was a sting in the air and Tiffany recognized the surge of static electricity. How could the elves be so stupid, she thought, as to attack in the midst of a storm? Did they not remember how she had used thunder and lightning to defeat them before? The sky was crackling. The hairs on her head tingled. She could see signs of a coming downpour happening everywhere, could recognize the buildup to an enormous storm.
As Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin’s mousepipes screeched out a battle hymn, pitched perfectly to assault the elven ears, there was a distant scream from a train at Twoshirts. A roar of iron and steel, a bellow that shouted: This is no world for elves!
Feegles and elves were fighting now, with no quarter given on either side. Tiffany could see that the Feegles were dealing with things in their own special way—which included getting into the elves’ clothing and fighting them from within. If there was something that an elf really hated, it was to have their clothing torn, and a black eye didn’t do much for the image either. You can’t be suave with a black eye, Tiffany thought.
She suddenly burst out laughing. It had been a long time since she had set eyes on Horace the Cheese,* but now she saw him rolling heavily over every fallen elf, and when they were flattened, the younger Feegles got to work as well, mostly with their heavy boots, but also with their double-the-fun clubs that curled in the air, clonking elves on the head and then coming joyfully back for another go. And yes, there was Maggie in their midst—a Feegle daughter fighting alongside her brothers! And indeed fighting even more furiously than her brothers. Tiffany thought, She’s like a small Ynci. The Feegle maid had been waiting for something like this to prove herself, so woe betide any elf who got in her way. It was one small step for a Feegle lassie—but a giant step for all Feegle womenfolk!
Miss Tick was flying overhead now, the strange rope-net hanging beneath her broomstick filled with young Feegles. As she pulled at one knot after another, the Wee Free Men were tumbling out to fall smack on the heads of the elves below. Crash! Whack! Crump! Followed by Aargh! from the elves.
And the witch had small bottles with her too—concoctions mixed in her caravan that she was now gleefully emptying over the heads of the elves’ horses as she swooped above them. There was a moment’s pause as each horse absorbed the mixture, then its eyes crossed, followed rapidly by its hooves, and it toppled to the ground, losing its footing, hurling its rider onto the earth to be quickly covered by Feegles.
Letitia had arrived now, summoned by Hamish, and was tumbling from her horse, determination in her face, borrowed chainmail over her dress. She somehow flowed through the elves—there was a certain magic to it as if she were some goddess of water, streaming everywhere: no thought to it, but no stopping it either. Suddenly the elvish horses still standing were bogged down in a quagmire, and the Feegles were there on hand to keep them in the mire.
Nevertheless, it looked as if the Feegles, Miss Tick, and Letitia were really not getting the better of the elves. Despite the Wee Free Men’s pouring into elvish underwear and tearing it up, Tiffany realized that the Nac Mac Feegles were actually in danger of losing.
Nightshade pointed out Peaseblossom sitting on a black charger, and Tiffany flew down to confront the leader of the elves. His minions scattered as she arrived—they had seen the expression on Tiffany’s face.
Peaseblossom was laughing. “Ah, the little country girl. How pleased I am to see you!”
She felt the tug of his glamour but rage was a useful tool, and she hated that grinning face. It was so self-centered. It loved itself beyond any other thing.
“Peaseblossom is a very stupid name for an elf of your size,” she said rather childishly.
And then, suddenly, the elf had sprung from his horse to stand before her, a saber in his hands, and his laughter was gone, only evil in his eyes.
A voice said, “Don’t touch her, Peaseblossom.”
And Nightshade was stepping forward, her glamour fully restored and shining gloriously, her hair streaked silver with the moonlight, her new wings resplendent. She held herself like a queen again, her gaze slowly moving over the warriors behind her treacherous lord, and such was the power of her presence that even the Feegles paused in the frozen silence.
“Why do you follow this . . . perfidious elf?” the Queen demanded of the elves. “I am your rightful queen, and I say that you do not have to do this. There are . . . other ways.” She spun on the spot, her velvet robes spiraling around her slim body. “I have learned this. And this girl”—she pointed at Tiffany—“is my friend.”
Tiffany couldn’t stop what happened next.
“Friend?” Peaseblossom spat. “There are no friends for elves.”
He raised his arm and his saber tore through Nightshade with a terrible swishing sound. The elf Queen fell, crumpling to the ground at Tiffany’s feet, where she writhed for a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, myriad faces and shapes appearing and disappearing, flickering in and out of substance, before finally lying still, a forlorn heap. Tiffany reeled back in shock. Peaseblossom had killed the Queen of the Fairies!
Worse, he had killed her friend.
Peaseblossom, reveling, turned to Tiffany, his face sharp and merciless. “You have no friend now!”
Suddenly the air was full of ice. “You killed one of your own to get to me, you cursed elf,” Tiffany said, her voice cold, red-hot anger boiling inside her. “She wanted to explore a new way, an alliance of humans and elves, and now you have killed her.”
“You stupid little girl!” Peaseblossom taunted. “You think you can stand against me? What a fool you are! We elves knew well of the witch who once walked the edges of this world . . . but you, you are just a child, filled with pride because you were once lucky against a failing queen”—he glanced contemptuously down at the little heap that had once been the Queen of Fairyland—“and now I will see you dead, alongside your friend.” He spat out the last word, and his glamour snaked toward her, creeping into her head, into her thoughts.
Tiffany recoiled, a memory of Nanny Ogg’s voice suddenly saying to her, Granny Weatherwax said to me as you is the one who’s to deal with the future. An’ bein’ young means you’ve got a lot of future. Well, it looked like Granny Weatherwax might have been wrong. She didn’t have much future to come.
She had failed everyone.
She had tried to be the witch for two steadings. And let everyone down . . .
She had gone to see the King of the Elves. He had turned her away. . . .
She had made a friend of Nightshade. Now the elf Queen was dead. . . .
She was facing a powerful elf lord who would kill her. . . .
She deserved to die. . . .
She was alone. . . .
Then it came to her. She did not deserve to die. And she was not alone. She never would be. Not while her land was beneath her boots. Her land. The land of the Achings.
She was Tiffany Aching. Not Granny Weatherwax, but a witch in her own right. A witch who knew exactly who she was and how she wanted to do things. Her way. And she had not failed, because she had barely begun. . . .
She stood tall. Frosty. Furious. “You called me a country girl,” she said, “and I will see to it that the country will see you dead.”
The land was speaking to her now, filling her up, throwing the glamour of the elf lord aside as though it were nothing, and the air crackled like lightning. Yes, she thought. Thunder and Lightning. The two dogs were long gone, buried in the hills alongside Granny Aching, but their strength was with her.
And she was standing firm, her feet on the turf, the murmur of the ancient ocean below swelling through her soles. Earth. Water.
She raised her arms. “Thunder and Lightning, I command you.” Fire and Air. As she drew on the power of the two sheepdogs, there in the air was a flash of lightning, a rumble of thunder. The shepherd’s crown glowed golden on her breast—at the heart of it all, the soul and center of her being—the golden light rising from the apex to surround her, protect her, add its energy to her own.
And the sky broke in half.
Never had there been such a storm. It was full of vengeance and the elves were running, or rather trying to run because the Feegles were in their way and the Wee Free Men had no liking for the elves. In the carnage and the shouting, it seemed to Tiffany that she wasn’t in charge anymore. She was just a conduit for the wrath of the Chalk.
The land under her feet was trembling, shaking like a wounded animal on a leash, yearning to be free. And the shepherd’s crown was shining like a living thing in front of her.
A shepherd’s crown, not a royal one.
A crown for someone who knew where she had come from.
A crown for the lone light zigzagging through the night sky, hunting for a single lost lamb.
A crown for the shepherd who was there to herd away the predators.
A crown for the shepherd who could work with the best sheepdogs any shepherd could possibly have.
A shepherd’s crown.
And she heard again that voice: Tiffany Aching is the first among shepherds, for she puts others before herself. . . .
A king of shepherds.
No . . . a queen.
She felt she needed to apologize to the crown, apologize for letting these elves come through and threaten this land, and so she said in a whisper, “I am Tiffany Aching and my bones are in the Chalk. Let the Chalk be cleansed!”
And the world changed.
In the city of Ankh-Morpork, Hex spat out a calculation for Ponder Stibbons—and he saw that an answer was underlined. . . .
A prayer wheel spun in the monastery of Oi Dong, and the monks bowed down in gratitude. . . .
While a little boy took his mother’s hand in the traveling now, and said, “Mummy, big nasties all gone . . .” He had a wooden train in his other hand, and a little backpack of tools over one shoulder. Perhaps he will be an engineer in this new world when he grows up, his mother thought.
And in Fairyland, there was a sudden twang, as if a strand connecting the two worlds had suddenly snapped. . . .
There was fighting still going on—it was hard to stop the Feegles once they got going—and Tiffany walked through it as if in a dream. The elves were trying to get away now, but the ground seemed to hold them down and she whispered, “I ask the Chalk, deliver to me the King of the Elves!”
The heavy dance of the land now had a different tempo.
Dust flew out, and there came suddenly the King of the Elves—the stink and his long hair and antlers were unmistakable. Oh, that stink! It had a life of its own. But in a way, Tiffany thought, it was a male stink of life.
The huge body loomed over her. “How now, Mistress Tiffany. I can’t say ‘Well met again,’” said the King. “But I must confess to . . . surprise. You surprised me before,” he mused, “with the gift you left me. A . . . shed. What do you humans do with this place you call a shed?” He sounded intrigued.
“It is a place for . . . interests. Where the future can be founded,” Tiffany said. “And a place where those who have lived many years may remember.”
“I have many memories,” said the King. “But I did not know that you had the power to offer me new entertainments, to draw me to new pleasures. Very few in this world or others are able to do so.”
And now, Tiffany thought, the King of the Elves did see her as more than a young girl. At this meeting she had respect. But he deserved respect too, so she bowed her head toward him, just a little.
“May I apologize for the hotheads in my kingdom,” he continued lazily, his voice smooth and delicious. “I find them a large annoyance. Quite possibly as you do.” He glared at the quivering Peaseblossom, and then at the corpse of Nightshade. “You, elf, you killed my queen, my lady Nightshade, just for spite,” he growled. And the King of the Elves brought himself upright and smacked Peaseblossom with a hand that killed, leaving the carcass just lying there, his careless and casual use of violence shocking Tiffany, despite all she knew of elves. “I’m sorry I had to do that,” he said, “but they don’t understand anything else. The universe turns, alas it turns and we have to accommodate change or move on. This is a good world we had here, mistress,” the King said now. He shrugged. “It’s a shame about the iron. But perhaps as the universe turns, Mistress Tiffany, we might meet again, on a different turn and in more happy circumstances.”
“Yes,” said Tiffany, “we might. Now, begone from my land.” Her voice was hard. And in the air there was the piercing sound of a whistle, with an answering screech as the early-morning train left Twoshirts station. “Listen, your majesty. That is the song of the five twenty-five for Lancre, and that is your future, my lord. A lifetime of metal if you stay.”
“These mechanisms are interesting. There are tools in my shed, and I wonder if such ‘trains’ could perhaps be made . . . without iron,” said the King, adding wistfully, “I am a man of magic, so I should be able to have anything I want.”
“But you can’t,” said Tiffany. “The railways are not for you.”
And it seemed to her, as he left, that the King of the Elves was looking thoughtful.
As the final elves slipped away to limp back to their land, she turned to Rob Anybody. “Rob, let us bury the Lady Nightshade here, where she fell,” she said quietly. “I will mark the spot with a cairn of stones. We will remember this day. We will remember her.” Then she added softly, almost to herself, “We need to remember.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Peace
As the morning flowed into the day, the Feegles were settling down to a feast of drinking, eating, and more drinking and telling tales, some of which were bigger than the Feegles themselves.
Rob Anybody looked at Tiffany and said, “Weel noo, mistress, the field is oor ain! Come on doon intae the mound. Jeannie would love tae see your sonsie face.”
And Tiffany slid into the mound, which seemed bigger than when she had seen it last. The great hall was full of leaping figures and flying kilts as the Feegles danced their reels—Feegles loved a reel at any time; the slap of boot on earth was like a challenge to the universe. Then, of course, every Feegle wanted every other Feegle to know how well they had conducted themselves against the elves.
Every single one of the younger Feegles was wanting Tiffany—their hag o’ the hills—to know how brave he had been. As they gathered around, she said, “What are your names, boys?”
Wee Callum, a little bit tongue-tied, said, “I’m Callum, mistress.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Tiffany.
“Aye, mistress, and this is my brother, Callum.”
“Two of you?” she said. “Isn’t that difficult?”
“Och no, I know who I am and he knows who he is and so does our other brother Callum.”
“And how did you like the fighting?”
“Och aye, we smited them weel enough. The Big Man is a hard taskmaster, ye ken. He sees to it that we can handle the mace and the spear and the ax. And, of course, the feets. And when the three of us got one of they scunners doon on the ground, that’s what oor boots was for.”
The old boys were marching down the lane.
And they had a new song now, one that began: “Ar-sol, ar-sol, a soldier’s life for me!” And with each verse, and each step, they were standing straighter and stronger.
“Ar-sol, ar-sol, a soldier’s life for me!
For King, for King, for King and Constabulary,
We wee, we wee, we weaken the enemies,
For they don’t want it up ’em, don’t want it up ’em, don’t want it up and over!”
And those who had wives kissed them—the wives hadn’t seen their husbands so frisky for years—and then they set off down to the pub to tell their mates all about it.
With a pint resting happily in his hand, Captain Makepeace sat on a milestone outside the pub and declaimed, “People of Lancre. We happy few, we extremely elderly few, have scorned the horrible elves. They say that old men forget, but we won’t. Not by a long chalk. We thought we were old—but today we found we were still young.”
And then it was time for another round of drinks. And another, with everyone wanting to stand the old boys a round, until standing was no longer an option. And still the shout went up: Was there time for another flagon?
As the moon rose to herald the hours of darkness the following day, there was Geoffrey on his broomstick, which was once again hovering in the air. Tiffany shouted over at him, “I still don’t know how you can do that!”
“No idea, Tiffany—can’t everyone?” he replied. “Let’s ask, for here comes everyone.”
And indeed, now the other witches were arriving, led by Nanny Ogg and Magrat. It was time to look to the future once again—a future not now filled with elves. But the present, well, the present was filled with the chattering and gossiping of witches as the tales of the two battles were shared.
Rob Anybody had set fire to a beacon and Tiffany watched the last witches circling until there was space, then coming in to land one after the other. Not one left her stick hovering, though—it seemed as if Geoffrey was the only one who could make his broomstick do that.
“I wonder if they’re goin’ to sneak back,” said Nanny Ogg after a while. “You can’t trust Old Hairy. He was tryin’ to charm you, Tiff, by what you say.”
“I know, but I am not charmed,” said Tiffany. “Not since the one elf who tried to be a good elf is now dead. We marked the spot where we buried her, Nanny, you know. And if they do try to come back, we will be ready for them. We can put iron on the stones here on the Chalk, like you’ve laid swarf all around the Dancers in Lancre.” Her voice hardened. “There is iron in my soul now. And iron in dealing with them should they dare ever to return.”
“Well,” said Magrat the Queen, “we’ve knocked them down so often now that I think he means what he said. I think it’s unlikely they will come back.”
