And at the foot of the Ramtops, a young maiden by the name of Elsie was tickled under the chin by a flower, and suddenly loosed the hand of her little sister, letting the little girl wander into the river, while Elsie gazed lovingly into the eyes of her father’s donkey . . . as an unwary traveller skipped deeper and deeper into the woods, dancing to elven music that would never stop, the elves gambolling along beside him, laughing at his distress . . .
And Herne the Hunted – god of the small and furry, those destined to be eaten – crawled under a bush and hid as three elves discovered the gory fun they could have with a family of young rabbits . . .
fn1 You might think that a name like Stank would put people off. But in fact the mountain village of Stank had once been a very popular place for tourists. They liked to send messages home saying, ‘We’re stinking in Stank.’ And go home with presents for their loved ones like tunics with ‘I’ve been to Stank and all I’ve brought home is this stinking tunic’ written on them. Alas for them, with the coming of the railways – or in the case of Stank, the not coming of the railways – tourists began to go elsewhere, and Stank was now gradually disappearing into the mud, surviving mostly by taking in washing.
CHAPTER 14
A Tale of Two Queens
TIFFANY TOOK NIGHTSHADE – a very small, pathetic creature right now – back to her father’s farm with her, tucking her under her cloak for the journey, and then settling her and the Feegles into one of the old-fashioned hay barns.
‘It’s clean and warm here,’ she said, ‘with no metal. And I will bring you some food.’ She looked sternly at the Feegles. They had a hungry look to them. There was an elf, all by itself. What could they do with it? ‘Rob, Wee Mad Arthur, Big Yan,’ she said, ‘I’m just going to get a lotion for Nightshade, to help heal her wounds, and I do not want you to touch her while I am gone. Is that clear?’
‘Oh aye, mistress,’ said Rob cheerfully. ‘Get yeself offski and leave yon scunner wi’ us.’ He glared at Nightshade. ‘If yon elf gi’ us any trouble, ye ken, we have oor weapons.’ He shook his claymore in a fashion that clearly showed that he was itching to take it out to play.
Tiffany turned back to Nightshade. ‘I am the hag o’ the hills,’ she said, ‘and these Feegles will do my bidding. But they do not like you and your kind, so I suggest you mend your manners, madam, and play the game. Or there will be a reckoning.’
And then, indeed, she was offski. But it was a very rapid offski, as she trusted the elf very little and the Feegles even less.
When Tiffany got back, Nightshade took the healing ointment, and it seemed as if with each smooth stroke the little elf blossomed, becoming more and more beautiful. There was a sparkle about her and it was like a syrup that covered everything. It shouted, ‘Am I not beautiful? Am I not clever? I am the Queen of Queens!’
Then it seemed to Tiffany that her sense of self was being changed; but she had been waiting for it, and she thought, I’m not having that, my friend. She said, ‘You will not try your elvish wiles on me, madam!’
But still she felt the elf’s magic reaching out for her, like the creep of a sunrise . . .
She screamed, ‘You will not put your glamour on me, elf!’ And the words of the shepherd’s count that Granny Aching had used were in her mind. ‘Yan tan tethera,’ she chanted, over and over, the singing of the words helping her mind become her own again.
It worked. Nightshade began to tone herself down, and now she looked like a farm girl, a dairymaid. She had conjured up a dairymaid’s dress for herself, though one that no real dairymaid would ever wear, given that it was adorned with little ribbons and bows, a dainty little slipper-clad foot peeking out from beneath the hem. As a pretty straw bonnet took shape, Tiffany recoiled – the elf had summoned up an echo of the costume she knew very well, one worn by a china shepherdess she had once given to her granny. And as she remembered Granny Aching she became incredibly angry. How dare this elf try this on her, here, on her very turf!
‘I demand—’ Nightshade tried, and then she saw Tiffany’s expression. ‘I would hope . . .’
A country girl! The elvish has begun to leave the building, Tiffany thought with delight. But she still folded her arms and glared at the elf. ‘I’ve helped you,’ she said, ‘but I am also busy helping other people – people who would have a better life if you weren’t here.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Especially if your people cause mischief, do things like spoiling our beer. Yes, I know about that, and I know you, elf, and I know what you want. You want your kingdom back, don’t you, Nightshade?’
There was a growl from the assembled Feegles, and Big Yan said hopefully, ‘Can we nae throw it back there, mistress?’
‘Aye,’ said Rob. ‘Be rid o’ yon pest.’
‘Well, Rob,’ said Tiffany, ‘I am sorry to tell ye, there are some folks who think Feegles are a pest.’
Big Yan went silent, then said slowly, ‘Weel, we may be pests, ye ken, but a puir bairn has nae reason tae dread Feegles.’ He rose to his full height of seven inches – Big Yan was very tall for a Feegle, with the scars on his forehead typical of the taller-than-average, who can find doorways somewhat challenging – and loomed over the elf from the rafters.
Tiffany ignored him, turning back to Nightshade. ‘Am I right?’ she demanded. ‘You want to return to Fairyland? What do you say?’
Cunning flickered across Nightshade’s sharp little face. ‘We are like bees,’ she said at last. ‘The Queen has all the power . . . until she gets older, and then a new queen kills her to take the hive.’ A wave of anger was suddenly visible. ‘Peaseblossom,’ she hissed. ‘He does not believe that the world has changed. It was he who threw me from my people.’ A contemptuous sneer crossed her lips. ‘He, who is so powerful he can spoil beer. When we could once destroy worlds . . .’
‘I could give you some help with your little friend Peaseblossom,’ Tiffany said slowly. ‘I would settle for you as Queen of the Elves again if you could make all the elves go back once more to their own land and stay there. But if you and your race should come here for the purpose of making humans your slaves, well, you may think you have seen me angry, but then you will know the real meaning of the word rage.’
As she said that everything about her flickered in fire. And she remembered facing the Queen before. Land under wave. Knowing where she had come from, where she was going. And that she could no longer be fooled. Knowing that no matter how many people dreamed, invited the elves to come into the world, she would be there, awake, holding firm.
‘If you break your vow, the last things you will see are Thunder and Lightning,’ she threatened. ‘Thunder and Lightning in your head and you will die of the thunder. That is a promise, elf.’
From the look of terror that flickered across Nightshade’s face, Tiffany knew that the elf understood.
She brought Nightshade some porridge in the morning.
The elf looked up at Tiffany as she took the bowl, and said, ‘You could have killed me yesterday . . . I’d have killed me. Why didn’t you? You know I am an elf, and we are merciless.’
‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, ‘but we are human, and we do know mercy. I also know I’m a witch, and I’m doing my job.’
‘You are clever, Tiffany Aching, the little girl I almost killed on the hill when the thunder and lightning became solid and hurtful, all teeth and bite.’ Nightshade was puzzled. ‘What am I now but a ragged pauper? Friendless, but you, one girl, you took me in when you had no reason to.’
‘I did have a reason,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m a witch, and I thought it possible.’ She sat down on a milk churn, and said, ‘You must understand that elves are seen as vindictive, callous, spiteful, untrustworthy, self-centred, undeserving, unwelcome nuisances – and that’s being nice. I’ve heard much worse language used about them, especially from people whose children have been taken away, I can tell you. But nothing stays the same – our world, our iron, your court, your glamour. Did you know, Nightshade, that in Ankh-Morpork goblins
have jobs, and are considered to be useful members of the community?’
‘What?’ said the Queen. ‘Goblins? But you humans hate goblins – and their stink! I thought the one we captured was lying!’
‘Well, maybe they do stink a bit, but so do their masters, because for some of them a stink is money,’ said Tiffany, ‘and a goblin who can repair a locomotive can stink as much as he likes. What do you elves have to offer us? You are just . . . folklore now. You’ve missed the train, in fact, and you have only mischief left, and silly tricks.’
‘I could kill you with a thought,’ said Nightshade with a sly look.
‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany, holding up a hand to halt the Feegles, each of whom wanted to be the one to get the first fist in. ‘I hope you don’t do so. It would be your last.’ She looked at the elf, whose sharp little face was quivering with upset as she found herself surrounded by those she did not understand. ‘Oh, please don’t cry. An elf who has been a queen – an elf who wants to be a queen again – surely shouldn’t cry.’
‘A queen shouldn’t, but I am a remnant of a queen, lost in the wilderness.’
‘No, you are in a hay barn. Do you understand the meaning of manual labour, lady?’
Nightshade looked puzzled. ‘No. What does it mean?’
‘It means earning a living by working. How are you with a shovel?’
‘I don’t know. What is a shovel?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany again. ‘Look, you can stay here until you are better, but you must work hard at something. You could try.’
A boot bounced off the ground beside her, one of her father’s, a hole at the toe, and another trying out of sympathy to join in at the heel. ‘I cannae abide boots on my feet, ye ken,’ said Wee Mad Arthur, ‘but if ye recall I wuz raised by shoemakers, and they tol’ me a tale o’ the elves. Yon scunner ye ha’ there might ha’ a talent for it, ye ken.’
Nightshade turned the boot gingerly over in her hands. ‘What is this?’ she said.
‘A boot,’ said Tiffany.
‘An’ ye’ll get one reet noo up yer backside if I ha’ anythin’ tae dae wi’ it,’ Big Yan growled.
Tiffany took the boot from the elf and put it down. ‘We’ll talk later, Nightshade,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your suggestion, Wee Mad Arthur, and yes, I do know the storyfn1 but I think it is just that, a story.’
‘Weel, I tol’ ye, Wee Mad Arthur, you shouldnae have listened to that load o’ old cobblers,’ said Rob.
It was a day of old sheets and old boots and ‘make do and mend’. And oh dear, Tiffany thought, she had to check on baby Tiffany, and drop in on Becky Pardon and Nancy Upright – Miss Tick felt that both girls might be of use if she wanted to take on a trainee in the Chalk. But she couldn’t ask the girls to move in while she had Nightshade at the farm, not unless she gave them each a horseshoe necklace so they would be protected by the iron. It would have to wait . . .
She was back and forth to the farm all day, in between visits. Her last call of the afternoon was to Mr Holland the miller. There were only a few purple blotches on his skin now, and she left Mistress Holland with a second pot of the Merryday Root lotion, biting her tongue at the good lady’s clear message of ‘If only you had been here, I wouldn’t have used the wrong herb.’
When she got back, she found Nightshade perched in the corner of the barn, her merciless eyes pinned on You, who had stalked in and was arching her back and hissing at the elf. The Feegles were egging You on, with cries of ‘Ach, see you, pussycat, gi’ the scunner a wee giftie for the Nac Mac Feegle’, interrupted by a sudden, ‘Crivens, lads, the big wee hag is back!’
Tiffany stood in the doorway tapping her foot, and Rob shrank back.
‘Ach no,’ he wailed. ‘Nae the Tappin’ of the Feets, mistress.’
Tiffany folded her arms.
‘Ach, mistress, ’tis a heavy thing to be under a geas,’ Rob moaned.
And Tiffany laughed.
But Nightshade had questions for her. She had seen people coming to the farm during the day, coming for medicines, for advice, for an ear to listen and, sadly, sometimes for an eye to see the bruises.
‘Why do you help these strangers?’ she asked Tiffany now. ‘They are not of your clan. You owe them nothing.’
‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘although they are strangers, I simply think of them as people. All of them. And you help other people – that’s how we do it.’
‘Does every person do it?’ said Nightshade.
‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘Sadly, that is true. But many people will help other people, just because, well, because they are other people. That’s how it goes. Do you elves not understand this?’
‘Shall we say that I am trying to learn?’ said Nightshade.
‘And what do you find?’ said Tiffany, smiling.
‘You become a kind of servant.’ Nightshade sniffed, her delicate nose wrinkling.
‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘But it doesn’t matter, because one day I might need that person, and then they will very probably help me. It works for us; it always has.’
‘But you have battles,’ said Nightshade. ‘I know that.’
‘Yes, but not always. And we are getting better at the not.’
‘You are powerful, though. You could rule the world,’ said Nightshade.
‘Really?’ said Tiffany. ‘Why should I want to do that? I am a witch, I like being a witch, and I like people too. For every nasty person, there’s a nice one, mostly. There is a saying, “What goes around comes around,” and it means that sooner or later you will find yourself on top, at least for a while. And another time, the wheel turns and you will not be on top but you have to put up with it.’
She tried to look into Nightshade’s eyes, see what the elf was thinking, but she might as well have looked at a wall. The elf’s eyes were emotionless.
‘And I remember the darkness and the rain and the thunder and lightning,’ she added, ‘and what good has it done you? You, elf, found in a ditch?’
For once Nightshade seemed at a loss and looked carefully at Tiffany before saying, ‘Your way . . . would not work for elves. Every other elf is a challenge. We kill our queens – every other queen is a rival, and we fight over the hive.’ She paused as a new thought struck her. ‘Yet you have your queens of wisdom – and thus there was Granny Aching, and Granny Weatherwax, and yes indeed, Tiffany Aching. You grow older, wisdom flourishes and is passed on.’
‘And you never prosper, you live in a cycle of decay,’ Tiffany said softly. ‘And you are not bees. They are productive but they die young and never, ever have a thought . . .’
There was a strange look on the elf’s face. She was having to think. Really think. Tiffany could see it. Nightshade had the face of someone who had already begun to think about a world that had changed, a world with iron that was less welcoming for the fairy folk, a world that liked them well enough in stories but had no real belief in them, gave them no way in; now she was looking closer and she was finding a new world she had never thought about before, and she was trying to reconcile it with everything else she knew.
And Tiffany could see the battle in her face.
Over in Lancre, Queen Magrat had heard about the trouble up in the Ramtops – the attack on the lumberjacks, the deaths and the lost timber.
Elves, she thought. They’d seen them off last time, but it hadn’t been easy, and it had been a long time since she’d posted guards – well, Shawn Ogg, anyway – up by the circle of stones known as the Dancers, or made sure the castle had plenty of horseshoes to hand.
She knew how the memory plays tricks, and the old stories had power, and everyone forgot how ‘terrific’ really meant ‘brings terror’. Her people would only remember that the elves sang beautifully. They would have forgotten what their song was about.
Magrat was not only a queen, but also a witch, of course. And although she was mostly a queen these days, the witch part of her knew that the balance was off, that Granny Weatherwax had left
a void behind her, and no matter how hard Tiffany Aching was working to fill it – and that nice backhouse boy she now had – Granny Weatherwax was a hard act to follow; she had held the barrier, held it firm.
And if the barrier was no longer strong . . . Magrat shivered. Anyone who had ever met elvenkind knew that ‘terror’ was absolutely the right response – the only response. For the elves were a plague that could spread rapidly, destroying and harming and hurting and poisoning all they touched. She wanted no elves in Lancre.
That evening, Queen Magrat went to her garderobe and took out her beloved broomstick, sat on it and very carefully tried a lift and, slightly against her expectations, it took off gently, rising slowly over the castle. She flew around happily for some minutes and told herself, It’s true – once a witch, always a witch.
Being a dutiful wife, when she wanted to be, she mentioned her intentions to her husband late that evening, and to her surprise King Verence said, ‘Back on the old broomstick, my love? Very glad to hear it. I’ve seen your face when a witch flies by, and no man can keep a bird in chains.’
Magrat smiled and said, ‘I don’t feel like a bird in a cage, my dear, but now we don’t have Granny, I feel I must help.’
‘Well done,’ said Verence. ‘We are all coming to terms with what’s happened, but I am sure Mistress Aching will follow in Granny’s footsteps.’
‘It isn’t like that,’ said Queen Magrat. ‘I think she is walking in her own footsteps.’ She sighed. ‘But there are elves afoot,’ she said. ‘And I believe Tiffany will be at Granny’s cottage – no, her cottage – later today, so I must go and see her, offer my support.’ Her husband shivered at the mention of elves. ‘Of course,’ Magrat continued firmly, ‘I also intend to be a good role model for our children. Young Esme is growing up fast and I want her to see that there’s more to being a queen than waving hellos – we don’t want her to start kissing frogs, now, do we? We all know how that can turn out!’fn2 She turned at the door, and tossed her husband a baby sling. ‘I am quite sure,’ she said sweetly, ‘that you can look after our children very well indeed on your own for a little while.’