Nightshade looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘But I’m not sure I felt like an elf should . . . is that a good thing?’
‘Look,’ Tiffany said, ‘the wizards tell us that in the very, very olden days, humans were more like monkeys, and being a monkey was a very clever thing to be as monkeys like to see into everything. And then the monkeys realized that if one monkey tried to kill a large wolf, he would soon be a dead monkey, but if two monkeys could get together they would be very happy monkeys, and happy monkeys create more happy monkeys so they would have lots of monkeys, which chatter and gibber and talk all the time until, in the end, they became us. So too could an elf change.’
‘When I get my kingdom back . . .’ Nightshade began.
‘Stop there,’ said Tiffany. ‘Why do you want your kingdom back? What good has it done you? Think about it, for I am the human who has looked after you, the only person you might call a friend.’ She looked seriously at the elf. ‘I have told you that I – we – would be happy if you were to be Queen of the Elves again, but only if you can truly learn from your time here. Be prepared to live in peace, teach your elves that the world has changed and that there is no space for them here.’
There was hope in her voice now, a hope that human and elf might be able to change the stories of humans and elves.
A princess doesn’t have to be blonde and blue-eyed and have a shoe size smaller than her age, she thought.
People can trust witches, and not fear the old woman in the woods, the poor old woman whose only crime was to have no teeth and to talk to herself.
And perhaps an elf could learn to know mercy, to discover humanity . . .
‘If you learn things,’ she finished softly, ‘you might find yourself building a different kind of kingdom.’
fn1 Nanny’s friend on that occasion had been Count Casanunda the lowwayman – a highwayman who carried a stepladder on his horse, on account of his being a dwarf, and was most gallant towards the ladies he encountered.
fn2 A thought that she would most certainly grow out of, assuming she survived long enough.
fn3 It has in fact been said that elves are like cats; but cats will work together – for instance, when sharing a kill – while elves squabble and fight so that a third party may go home with the food.
fn4 It looked a rather poisonous green before it was heated up, but in most cases the end certainly justified the greens.
fn5 It disappeared pretty quickly too, as anyone given fairy gold soon discovered. Usually by the morning, which often meant a lively evening in the pub. And an even livelier evening the following night if visiting the same establishment.
fn6 Very true, though getting out again was sometimes trickier, especially if there was strong drink about.
CHAPTER 16
Mr Sideways
THE OLD BOYS in the villages around Granny Weatherwax’s cottage had swiftly taken a liking to Geoffrey. They respected Nanny Ogg and Tiffany, of course, but they really liked Geoffrey.
They would taunt him sometimes; after all, he was in a woman’s business, but when he got on his broomstick – sometimes even with his goat perched behind him rather than harnessed to its little cart – and whizzed away to the horizon, they were speechless.
Even when he was really busy, he always had time to stop and chat and there was always a brew on in any shed when he came by, and a broken biscuit for Mephistopheles. The old boys were fascinated by the goat, but wary nonetheless after the day when someone gave it a drink of ale just to see what would happen and, to their astonishment, Mephistopheles danced like a ballerina and then kicked a young tree so hard that its trunk split in two.
‘It’s like those folk who do mushi,’ said Stinky Jim.
‘I don’t think that’s the right word,’ said Smack Tremble. ‘Ain’t mushi something you eat? Out in . . . foreign parts.’
‘You mean One-man-he-go-up, he-go-down,’ Captain Makepeace said. ‘A way of fighting.’
‘That’s it!’ said Stinky Jim. ‘There was a fellow at the market in Slice who could do that.’
‘There’s a lot of people in Slice who can do that kind of thing,’ Smack Tremble added with a shiver. ‘Odd place, Slice.’fn1
They sat and thought about Slice for a moment. You could find anything at Slice market if you looked hard enough. Famously a man once sold his wife there, where the phrase ‘bring and buy’ was taken literally, and he went home with a second-hand wheelbarrow and felt he had the best of the bargain. Then they looked at the remains of the sapling and agreed that Mephistopheles was indeed a remarkable goat, but perhaps it would be best to leave his diet alone.
The remarkable goat himself stoically chewed his way through the long grass by the pub fence as though nothing untoward had happened and then trotted off to find Geoffrey.
On this particular fine morning, Geoffrey was at Laughing Boy Sideways’s house. Tiffany had been treating a particularly troublesome bunion of his which had resisted her ministrations for weeks. She had been considering breaking her rule and using magic on the thing, just to be done with it, when Geoffrey decided to pop in to see Mr Sideways on a day when Tiffany was away at the Chalk. He found the old man by the back door of his cottage, just about to hobble down the path to the old barn. Instead of heading back into the cottage as he would have done if Tiffany had called, Mr Sideways beckoned to Geoffrey to follow him down the path towards the rickety barn. And it was as Geoffrey watched the old boy struggling painfully along in his old army boots that he noticed something very wrong.
‘Well, dang me!’ Mr Sideways said when Geoffrey prised the offending hobnail from his left boot. ‘If I’d known that was what the trouble was, I’d have dealt with the bugger meself!’ He looked at Geoffrey with bright eyes. ‘Thank ’ee, lad.’
Old Mr Sideways lived on his own and had done so for as long as anyone could remember. He was meticulously dressed and in the city might have been described as ‘dapper’. Apart from his work overalls, which were washed regularly but were streaked with paint and oil, he was always spick and span. So was his little cottage. The living room, which he kept immaculately tidy, had paintings of people in old-fashioned dress on the wall – Geoffrey assumed these were portraits of Mr Sideways’s parents, although he never spoke of them. Everything the man did he did carefully. Geoffrey liked him, and even though he was a very private man, he had taken to Geoffrey.
The shed Mr Sideways had constructed adjacent to the old barn was also immaculate. Every shelf was neatly stacked with carefully labelled old tobacco tins and jars. His tools were hung against the walls, neatly ranked by size. They were clean and sharp too. Tiffany had never been allowed beyond Mr Sideways’s living room, but Geoffrey had soon been welcomed to share a mug of tea and a biscuit in the shed by the barn.
Each one of the sheds Geoffrey visited on his rounds of the old boys was different, expressing the personality of the occupant, unfettered by female intervention. Some were chaotic, with piles of scrap and half-made objects scattered about; others were tidier – like Captain Makepeace’s shed, which was full of paints, brushes and canvases, but still had a clear sense of order.
But no one was as tidy as Mr Sideways. And then Geoffrey noticed something missing. All the other sheds had at least one work in progress visible, whether it was a half-made bird table, or a stripped-down wheelbarrow with a new shaft, but there was nothing like that to be seen in Mr Sideways’s shed. And he evaded the question when Geoffrey asked what he was working on.
‘What are you up to, Mr Sideways?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘You look like a man who has been thinking, and I know you are a canny man at that.’
Mr Sideways cleared his throat. ‘Well, you see, lad, I am building a machine. I’ve no interest in bird tables or mug trees and the like. But machines now . . .’ He paused, then looked carefully at Geoffrey. ‘I’ve been thinking that it might be useful, what with the troubles folks are having.’
Geoffrey sat calmly, waiting for the old boy to fin
ish his tea and reach a conclusion. Eventually Mr Sideways put down his mug and stood up, brushing the crumbs off his lap. He swept them up with a small pan and brush he clearly kept just for that purpose, washed out the mugs, dried and stacked them neatly on a shelf, then opened the door.
‘Would you like to see, lad?’
While Geoffrey drank his mug of tea with Mr Sideways in Lancre, over in the Chalk Letitia, the Baroness, was sipping tea daintily with Magrat, the Queen of Lancre, who had arrived unexpectedly on her broomstick – a broomstick flying the pennant of Lancre, the two bears on black and gold, just to make sure that nobody could be in any doubt that this was a royal visit. She had arrived bearing a bunch of roses from the castle, throwing Letitia and her staff all in a tiswas and Letitia flapping about the cobwebs, some of which she had even managed to get tangled in her hair.
Magrat had smiled at the rather shaky-looking Letitia, and said, ‘I’m not here as a queen, love. I am here as a witch. I always have been one and always will be. So don’t worry about all the pomp – you know how it is, it’s just expected. A bit of dust here and there is nothing. Some parts of my castle are full of dust, I am sorry to say. You know how that is too.’
Letitia had nodded. She did indeed know what it was like. And as for the plumbing . . . well, she did not want to even think about how old-fashioned the castle was. The ancient privies had a habit of gurgling at the wrong time, and Roland said that if he had the time, he could create an orchestra from the bangs, gurgles and clankings that sometimes followed his morning visits.
She had rallied the troops, though, and now the two ladies sat side by side in the castle hall, breathing in the peaty fumes from the fireplace – it was always, always cold there, even in the summer, which was why the fireplaces were so big and ate several small trees at a time. The kitchen staff had brought out a hasty tray with tea and little snacks – and yes, the sandwiches did have the crusts cut off to make them appropriately dainty for the two noble ladies. Magrat sighed – she really hoped Letitia at least asked for the crusts to be given to the birds.
There was also a plate of rather wobbly cupcakes.fn2 ‘I made those,’ Letitia said proudly. ‘Yesterday. From a recipe in Nanny Ogg’s new cookbook – you know, A Lot of What You Fancy Makes You Fat.’ She coloured a little, and her hand crept self-consciously up to her bodice, where it was clear that when curves were being handed out, Letitia had been at the end of the line.
Magrat took a cake by its little case rather carefully. Some of Nanny Ogg’s recipes could include . . . unusual ingredients, and she already had three children. She nibbled at the little cake, and the two ladies exchanged the usual pleasantries, with Magrat admiring a watercolour Letitia had painted of the chalk giant up on the downlands. It was surprisingly detailed, especially in the No Trousers area. Nanny Ogg would definitely have approved, Magrat thought.
Then she got down to business. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Letitia, but up in Lancre we’ve had enough of the elves. Something must be done.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to say that Roland is about to write to Mistress Aching about the wave of elf raids and ask her what she’s proposing to do about them. There have been an awful lot of complaints, you know, and he’s out inspecting the damage.’ Letitia sighed. She understood that her husband looking at the damage comprised more than just inspecting the aftermath and saying, ‘Tsk, tsk,’ and ‘How long has this been going on?’ – it needed to include other things to make his tenants feel that someone was doing something about it. And Roland’s wife had impressed on him that this was not just a matter of being seen, but that rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck in alongside his men was good for morale. Even better if he bought a round in the pub when the day’s work was done and became not just the boss but almost a friend. ‘We’ve got men enough here, no doubt about that,’ she added, ‘but most of the time they are working on the farms. It would be appreciated if other witches could help.’
‘And unfortunately, that means us,’ Magrat said smartly, with the emphasis on the us part.
Letitia looked embarrassed. ‘I’m not a proper witch, you know.’
Magrat looked at the Baroness. There was something terribly soggy about Letitia, as if you could pick her up and wring her out. But witches came in all shapes and sizes. Both Nanny Ogg and Agnes Nitt, for instance, were decidedly plumpfn3 while Long Tall Short Fat Sally went up and down according to the tides – and there was no doubt that water could be powerful. ‘My dear, you are selling yourself short,’ she said. ‘And I know what it is. I believe, my dear, that you are frightened that you wouldn’t make the grade as a witch. We all went through that – girls normally do. Tiffany has told me all about you, you know. As for me, I don’t know what I would be like in a house with a screaming skeleton. Were you not the girl who gave a headless ghost a pumpkin to carry around? And handed a teddy bear to a screaming skeleton for comfort? You don’t think you are a witch, but every part of my soul says you are. I wish I’d had your opportunities when I was a girl.’
‘But I am the Baroness. I am a lady. I can’t be a witch.’
Magrat made a sound like ‘hurrumpf’, and said, ‘Well, I am a queen. That doesn’t stop me being a witch when needs must. This is the time, my dear, when we stop thinking about ourselves and who we are and get down and dirty. Tiffany cannot fight the elves on her own, and this is a war – and it will keep on going unless everyone pitches in.’
Her words flowed in and filled Letitia. ‘You are right, of course,’ the young Baroness said. ‘Naturally Roland will agree with me, as he always does. Count me in.’
‘Good,’ said Magrat. ‘I have got some chainmail which I think is your size. And now, how soon can you leave for Lancre? I believe we are meeting to discuss the situation. Can you ride a broomstick or do you need a lift?’
Tiffany straddled her broomstick. She had heard in the village that old Mrs Pigeon was near her time, and a wave of guilt had flooded through her. Yes, she had two steadings. Yes, she had to work out what to do with Nightshade. Yes, she had no time to rest. But she hadn’t seen the old lady for over a week, and in a week an old lady could fall through the cracks of life.
Nightshade was perched behind her, her sharp eyes noting everything. Noting how the Pigeon family had only the smallest plot of land, with soil so poor it was a wonder they got a crop out of it at all, their fortunes depending mostly on the little flock of sheep they had in their field by the stream.
Sid Pigeon, the youngest son, was there, looking much smaller somehow without his shiny railway uniform. To Tiffany’s surprise, he had brought a new work friend home with him.
Nightshade recoiled. ‘A goblin! In their house. Stinking . . .’ she said with distaste.
Tiffany felt like kicking her. ‘A very respectable goblin,’ she said smartly, though it was true that she could smell the goblin as soon as she went into the house, even over the layers of other smells happily living in that very dirty home. She nodded to the goblin, who was sitting with his feet up on the table, eating what looked like a chicken leg that others – possibly the cats – had had a go at before him. ‘Sid’s friend.’
‘Of Piston the Steam, mistresss,’ the goblin said cheerfully. ‘Works with the iron and steel, I doess—’
‘Tiffany,’ Sid said urgently, ‘have you come to see Granny? She’s in bed upstairs.’
Old Mrs Pigeon was indeed in her bed, and it didn’t look to Tiffany as if she was likely to be getting out of it ever again. The old lady was little more than a wrinkled set of bones, her twiglike fingers clutching at the edges of a faded patchwork quilt. Tiffany reached out and held one of her hands and . . . did what she could for the old lady, calling the pain out of the shrunken body—
And all hell broke loose downstairs.
‘Sid! Them pesky fairies or whatever – they’ve only gone and fouled the stream. It’s all yeller! And there’s dead fish floatin’ in it! We’ve got to move the sheep – now!’ Mr Pig
eon sounded desperate as he called to his son.
As a thunder of boots left the house, Tiffany held her concentration, drew more pain from old Mrs Pigeon. And then Nightshade was at her side.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘That . . . goblin went with the humans.’
‘It’s called helping,’ Tiffany said smartly, still trying to hold on to the pain she had taken from old Mrs Pigeon. ‘Remember?’
‘But goblins and humans don’t like each other,’ Nightshade continued, puzzled.
‘I told you, Of Piston the Steam is Sid’s friend. But this isn’t about liking,’ Tiffany said. ‘It’s about helping each other out. If the goblin camp was on fire or something, the humans would help them.’ She looked down at Mrs Pigeon; the old lady was falling into a sleep now. ‘Look, I need to go outside for a minute,’ she said. ‘Stay with Mrs Pigeon, would you? Let me know if she wakes again.’
Nightshade was horrified. ‘But I can’t – I’m an elf! I’ve already carried that basket. I can’t . . . help another human.’
‘Why not?’ said Tiffany sharply. ‘Of Piston the Steam just did. Are elves less than goblins?’ But she had no time to waste, so she headed downstairs and threw the pain out into a pile of stones laid ready for building into a wall.
It made a rather unfortunate loud bang – there had been quite a lot of pain – which is probably why, when she got back upstairs, Mrs Pigeon had woken up. Woken up and asked for a cup of water.
The old granny was staring up at Nightshade, a smile on her gummy face as she reached out for the cup. ‘You’re a good girl, you are,’ she was saying weakly. ‘A good girl . . .’
A good girl? A good elf?
Nightshade put her hands to her stomach. ‘I think it is beginning . . .’ she said softly, looking up at Tiffany. ‘I feel a sort of warm spot. Here, in my stomach. A little glow.’
Tiffany smiled, laid a gentling hand on Mrs Pigeon, and then took Nightshade by the arm. ‘I need your help,’ she said. ‘Elves have put this glamour on the stream and it runs past several farms . . . can you put it right?’ She paused. ‘As your friend, Nightshade, I am asking for your help. The Feegles can help with the sheep, but to remove the glamour? This is something only one of your kind can do.’