The God in the Barrow

IN THE DARK of the night, down in the Chalk, the wheel was definitely stuck in the old ways – just the way three elves dancing through the gloom of the woods liked it. This world was here for their pleasure, to entertain them, delight them. And the creatures within it were no more than toys; toys that sometimes squealed and ran and shrieked as the elves laughed and sang.

Now they spotted a small home, a poor-looking dwelling with a window slightly ajar. From within came the sound of babies, gurgling happily in their sleep, their bellies full of their mother’s milk, their limbs curled beneath the covers of their cots.

The elves grinned at each other and licked their lips in anticipation. Babies!

Faces now at the window. Predatory faces, with the eyes of hunters.

Then a hand reached in and tickled the nearest infant under the chin, the little girl waking and gazing in delight at the glorious creature leaning over her, his glamour shining radiantly in the dark room. Her little fingers stretched to touch a beautiful feather...

Tiffany’s happiness lasted until just after she had gone to bed, when there was a sudden tickling in her head, and in her inner eye she saw young Tiffany Robinson – the baby she had not had time to see yet this week, the little girl on whom she had placed a tracking spell.

But this was not just neglect by baby Tiffany’s mum and dad.

The elves had taken her!

Tiffany’s broomstick could not go fast enough. In a piece of woodland she found a group of three elves toying with the little girl, and what was inside her was not anger. It was something more forensic than that, and as the stick went onwards, Tiffany let her feelings flame up... and release.

The elves were laughing, but as Tiffany swooped down, she sent fire blazing from her fingertips and into them and watched them burn. She was shuddering with her fury, a fury so intense it was threatening to overcome her. If she met any more elves that night, they too would be dead.

And she had to stop herself there, suddenly appalled at what she had done. Only a witch gone to the dark would kill, she screamed at herself inside her head.

And another voice said, But they were just elves. And they were hurting the baby.

The first voice came sneakily back with, But Nightshade is also just an elf...

And Tiffany knew that if a witch started thinking of anyone as ‘just’ anything, that would be the first step on a well-worn path that could lead to, oh, to poisoned apples, spinning wheels and a too-small stove... and to pain, and terror, and horror and the darkness.

But it was done. And a witch had to be practical, so Tiffany wrapped her shawl around the baby and slowly flew to the Robinsons’ house – ‘shack’ being, in fact, a better word for the little dwelling. Young Mister Robinson opened the door to her knocking. He looked surprised, especially when Tiffany showed him his baby daughter, swaddled in her witch’s shawl.

She walked past him and confronted his wife, thinking, They are young, yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to be stupid. Leaving the windows open at this time of year? Surely everybody knows about elves...

My mother said I never should...

Play with the fairies in the wood...

‘Well,’ said Milly, ‘I checked the boys. They seemed to be all right.’ She blushed as Tiffany handed her the baby, and Tiffany caught it.

‘Let me tell you something, Milly. Your girl has a great future before her. I’m a witch, so I know it. Because you’ve let me name her, I will see to it that my namesake has what she needs – and mind, it is your girl I am talking about. In some way, she’s partly mine. Those great big boys of yours will look after themselves. Now don’t leave your windows open on nights like this! There are always watchers. You know it! Let no harm attend her.’

Tiffany almost shouted the last bit. This family needed a little prod every so often, and she would see to it. Oh yes, she would. And if they neglected their duty, well, there would be a reckoning. Maybe just a little reckoning, to make them understand.

But right now, as she headed home, she knew she needed to talk to another witch.

She grabbed a warm cloak from her bedroom, then saw the gleam of the shepherd’s crown on the shelf and, on a sudden impulse, tucked it into her pocket. Her fingers curled around the odd-shaped little stone, tracing its five ridges, and somehow she felt a strength flow into her, the hardness of the flint at its heart reminding her who she was. I need to keep a piece of the Chalk with me, she realized. My land gives me strength, supports me. It reminds me who I am. I am not a killer. I am Tiffany Aching, witch of the Chalk. And I need my land with me.

She sped through the night sky, back to Lancre, the cool of the air rushing past, the eyes of the owls watching her in the moonlight.

It was almost dawn when she arrived at Nanny Ogg’s home. Nanny was already up, or rather she hadn’t yet got down, since she had spent the night at a deathbed. She opened her door and blanched a little when she saw Tiffany’s face.

‘Elves?’ she asked grimly. ‘Magrat told me, you know. You got trouble over in the Chalk?’

Tiffany nodded, any calm deserting her as tears suddenly choked her voice. And over the requisite cup of tea in Nanny’s warm kitchen, she told her what had happened.

Then she came to the bit of the story which she struggled to get out. All she could say was, ‘The elves. With little Tiffany. They were going to...’ She choked a little, then, ‘I killed all three of them,’ she wailed. She looked despairingly at Nanny.

‘Good,’ said Nanny. ‘Well done. Don’t trouble yourself, Tiff. If they was hurtin’ that baby, well, what else could you do? You didn’t... enjoy it?’ she asked carefully, eyes shrewd in her wrinkled face.

‘Of course not!’ Tiffany cried. ‘But, Nanny, I just... I did it almost without thinking.’

‘Well, you might have to do it again soon if the elves keeps on comin’,’ Nanny said briskly. ‘We’re witches, Tiffany. We has the power for a reason. We just ’as to make sure as it’s the right reason, and if there’s an elf comin’ through and hurtin’ a baby, take it from me, that is the right reason.’ She paused. ‘If’n people do wrong things, well, why would they be surprised if bad things then happen to them. Most of ’em knows this, you know. I remember Esme tellin’ me once, she was in some hamlet or other – Spickle, Spackle, somewhere like that – and people was tryin’ to string up this man for killin’ two children and she said as he knew he deserved it; ’pparently ’e said, “I did it in liquor and it ended in ’emp”.’ She sat wearily down, allowing Greebo to clamber onto her ample lap. ‘Reality, Tiff,’ she added. ‘Life an’ death. You knows it.’ She scratched the tomcat behind what might be described as an ear by someone with very poor eyesight. ‘Is the child all right?’

‘Yes, I took her back to her parents but they... can’t... won’t... look after her properly.’

‘Some folk just don’t want to see the truth, even when you points it out to ’em. That’s the trouble with elves, they will keep comin’ back.’ Nanny sighed heavily. ‘People tell stories about ’em, Tiff,’ she said. ‘They make ’em sound fun – it’s as if their glamour hangs around after they’ve gone and stays in people’s heads, tellin’ ’em that elves is no problem. Just a bit of mischief.’ Nanny sank further into her chair, knocking a small family knick-knack off the table beside her. ‘Feegles,’ she said. ‘They’re mischief. But elves? Elves is different. You remember how the Cunning Man crept into people’s heads, Tiff? How he made people do things – awful things?’

Tiffany nodded, her mind replaying horrible images while her eyes still focused on the knick-knack on the floor. A present from Quirm from one of her daughters-in-law, and Nanny hadn’t even noticed she had knocked it over. Nanny. Who treasured every small object her family gave her. Who would never ever fail to notice if something was damaged.

‘Well, that’s nothin’ to what them elves might do, Tiff,’ Nanny continued. ‘There is nothin’ they likes more than watchin’ pain and terror, nothin’ that makes ’em laugh more. And they loves stealin’ babbies. You did well to stop them this time. They will come again, though.’

‘Well, then they will have to die again,’ said Tiffany flatly.

‘If you are there...’ Nanny said carefully.

Tiffany slumped. ‘But what else can we do? We can’t be everywhere.’

‘Well,’ said Nanny, ‘we’ve seen ’em off before. It was hard, for sure, but we can do it again. Can’t that elf of yorn help?’

‘Nightshade?’ Tiffany said. ‘They won’t listen to her the way things are right now! They threw her out.’

Nanny pondered a bit, then appeared to come to a decision. ‘There is someone they might listen to... or at least they used to listen to ’im. If he can be persuaded to take an interest.’ She looked at Tiffany appraisingly. ‘He don’t like to be disturbed. Though I have visited him before, once, with a friend’ – her eyes grew misty at the memoryfn1 – ‘and I think Granny and he may have had words in the past. He likes ladies, though. A pretty young thing like you might be just his cup of tea.’

Tiffany bristled. ‘Nanny, you can’t be suggesting—’

‘Lordy, no! Nothin’ like that. Just a bit of... persuadin’. You are good at persuadin’ folks, ain’t you, Tiff?’

‘I can do persuading,’ Tiffany said, relaxing a bit. ‘Who do you mean and where do I go?’

The Long Man. Tiffany had heard a lot about the Long Man, the barrow that led to the home of the King of the Elves – mostly from Nanny Ogg, who had gone into the barrow and met the King once before, when the elves had been getting unruly.

The professors would have said that the King lived in a long barrow from ancient times, when people didn’t wear clothing and there weren’t so many gods, and in a way the King himself was a kind of god – a god of life and death and, it seemed to Tiffany, of dirt and ragged clothing. And men still sometimes came to dance around by the barrow, horns on their heads and – usually – a strong drink in their hands. Unsurprisingly, they found it hard to persuade young women to go up there with them.

There were three mounds to the barrow, three very suggestive mounds that no country lass who had watched sheep and cows in action could fail to recognize – there was always a lot of giggling from the girls training to be witches when they first flew over it and saw it from the air.

Tiffany headed up the overgrown path, pushing her way through thorns and trees, untangling her witch’s hat from a particularly insistent bush at one point, and stopped by the cave-like entrance. She was strangely reluctant to duck under the lintel, past the scratched drawing of the man with horns and down the steps she knew she would find once she had pushed aside the stone at the entrance.

I cannot face him just by myself, she thought with terror. I need someone who can at least tell people how I died.

And a wee voice said, ‘Crivens!’

‘Rob Anybody?’

‘Oh aye. We follow ye all the time, ye ken. Ye are the hag o’ the hills and the Long Man is a big hill.’

But, ‘Wait by the gate please, Rob, I must do this by myself,’ she said, suddenly filled with sureness that this was the right choice. She had killed the three elves; now she would face their king. ‘This is hag business, ye ken.’

‘But we knows the King,’ said Rob. ‘If’n we gae along wi’ ye, we can fight yon scunner in his ain world.’

‘Oh aye,’ added Wee Dangerous Spike. ‘A big laddie, ye ken, but I’ll gi’ the bogle a face full of Feegle he’ll nae forget.’ He experimentally nutted one of the entrance stones, bouncing his head off the rock with a satisfying clunk.

Tiffany sighed. ‘That’s what I’m afeared – I mean, afraid of,’ she said. ‘I want to ask the King for his help. Not anger him. And I know the Feegles have history with him...’

‘Aye, that’s us,’ said Rob proudly. ‘We is history.’

‘Nae king, nae quin, nae laird!’ roared the assembled Feegles.

‘Nae Feegles,’ said Tiffany firmly. A sudden burst of inspiration hit her. ‘I need you just here, Rob Anybody,’ she told him. ‘I have to do my hag business with the King without anyone disturbing me.’ She paused. ‘And there are elves afoot. So if any should come seekin’ their king, I want you – Rob Anybody, Wee Dangerous Spike, all of ye – to stop them coming down after me. I need you to do this for me. It’s important. Is that understood?’

There was a bit of grumbling, but Rob had brightened up. ‘So we can gi’ them scunners a guid kickin’ if they shows up here?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Tiffany said wearily.

This was met by a cheer. ‘Nac Mac Feegle, wha hae!’

She left them there, squabbling over who should guard which part of the Long Man, Wee Dangerous Spike bashing his head enthusiastically against the entrance stones again as a sort of warmup for what he hoped was coming, and she walked into the stinky darkness, clutching the small crowbar she had brought with her, along with a horseshoe. She put one hand into her pocket and held tight on to the shepherd’s crown – her ground, her turf. Let’s see if I am truly the hag of the hills, she thought, and she gripped the big stone blocking the entrance.

It rose up gently, no crowbar necessary, the stone crackling as she raised it higher and higher, revealing the steps beyond. The path inside led her deeper and darker, spiralling round and round, taking her into the heart of the barrow.

Into a pathway between the worlds.

Into the world of the elven King, where he floated between time and space in his land of pleasure. It was stifling, though there was no fire – the heat seemed to be coming out of the earth.

And it stank. It reeked of masculinity and unwashed clothing, of feet and sweat. There were bottles everywhere, and at the end of the hall, naked men were wrestling, grunting and groaning as they twined and twisted with their opponents, their bodies greased as if from a bucket of lard. There were no women to be seen – this was a land where men indulged themselves with no thought for the other sex. But when they saw Tiffany, they stopped and put their hands over their essentials – as Nanny Ogg would have said – and Tiffany thought: Ha, you big strong men, your meat and two veg hanging out, you are frightened, aren’t you? I am the maiden – and I am also the hag.

She could see the King of the Elven Races. He was just as Nanny Ogg had described, still stinking of course, but somehow hugely attractive. She kept her eyes on the horns on his head, trying not to look at his meat and veg, which were huge.

The King sighed, stretching out his legs and tapping his hooves against the wall, an animal scent like that of a badger in heat rising from him and curling towards her. ‘You, young woman,’ he said lazily, his voice an invitation to romance, to wickedness, to pleasures you had not known you wanted until that moment. ‘You come into my world. Into my entertainments. You are a witch, are you not?’

‘Indeed I am,’ said Tiffany, ‘and I am here to ask the King of the Elves to be a proper king.’

He moved closer and Tiffany tried not to blanch as the stench of him thickened. He smiled lasciviously, causing her to think, I know who you are and what you are, and I think Nanny Ogg must have liked you...

‘Who are you?’ he queried. ‘By your garb, you seem indeed to be a witch, but witches are old and somewhat wrinkled. You, girl...’

Sometimes, Tiffany thought, I am so fed up with being young.fn2 My youth has got his attention, but what I need is his respect.

‘I may be young, my lord,’ she said firmly, ‘but as you see, I am a ha— a witch. And I come to tell you that I have killed three of your people.’

That should do it, she thought, but the King merely laughed. ‘You interest me, my girl,’ he said, stretching languorously. ‘I do no harm,’ he added lazily. ‘I simply dream, but my people, oh dear, what can I do? I must allow them their delights, as I do myself.’

‘But their delights are not to our taste,’ said Tiffany. ‘Not in my world.’

‘My world?’ chuckled the King. ‘Oh, you have pride, little girl. Perhaps you would like to be one of my ladies. A queen needs pride...’

‘The Lady Nightshade is your queen,’ said Tiffany firmly, her legs shaking at the invitation in the King’s words. To stay here? With him? her mind shrieked. She gripped the shepherd’s crown more firmly. I am Tiffany Aching, of the Chalk, she said to herself, and I have flint in my soul. ‘Nightshade is my... guest,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you did not know, my lord, that your queen has been thrown from Fairyland by the Lord Peaseblossom?’

A lazy smile spread across the King’s face. ‘Nightshade...’ he mused. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy her company.’ He spread his legs, making Tiffany gulp, and leaned forward. ‘You begin to tire me now, girl. What do you want from me?’

‘Get your elves to see sense,’ said Tiffany. ‘Or there will be a reckoning.’ Her voice almost wobbled on the last bit of this, but it had to be said, oh yes.

There was a huge sigh, and the King yawned as he lay back again. ‘You come to my abode and you threaten me?’ his voice caressed. ‘Tell me, mistress, what care should I have for those elves who play in your lands? Even the Lady Nightshade? There are other worlds. There are always other worlds.’

‘Well, mine never was a place for elves,’ Tiffany said. ‘It was never yours. You just latched on to it – a parasite – and took what you could. But once again I have to tell you these are the days of iron – not just horseshoes, but iron and steel forged together in great lines across the land. It’s called a railway, my lord, and it is spreading across the Disc. People are interested in mechanical things, because mechanical things work, while old wives’ tales mostly just don’t kill them. And so people laugh at the fairies, and as they laugh, so you will dwindle. You see, nobody cares about you any more. They have the clacks, the railways, and it’s a new world. You – and your kind – have no future here now other than in stories.’ She said the last word contemptuously.

‘Stories?’ the King mused. ‘A way into the minds of your peoples, mistress. And I can wait... the stories will survive when this “railway” you speak of is long gone.’

‘But we will not stand by to see small children taken as playthings for elves any more,’ Tiffany said. ‘I and others will burn those who take them. This is a warning – I would like it to be friendly but, alas, it seems this is not possible. You are living in railway time and you should leave us be.’

The King sighed again. ‘Perhaps... perhaps,’ he said. ‘New lands to discover could be entertaining. But I have told you, I have no desire to visit your land in this time of iron. After all, I have all the time I wish for...’

‘What about the elves who have already come through?’

‘Oh, just kill them if you wish.’ The King smiled again. ‘I may remain here until the end of time, and I don’t think that you would want to be there. But I have always liked the ladies, and so I will say that if elves are stupid, they deserve my censure and your wrath. My dear Mistress Aching – and yes, I do know who you are – you clasp good intentions to you like a mother clutches her young. Now, should I even let you leave? When I am looking for... entertainment.’ He sighed. ‘I do so desire new amusements sometimes – perhaps to tinker with something, to discover new interests. And one new interest could be you. Do you think that I will let you leave my home?’ His heavy-lidded eyes caressed her.

Tiffany swallowed. ‘Yes, your majesty. You will let me leave.’

‘You are so sure?’

‘Yes.’ Tiffany wrapped her hand around the shepherd’s crown once again, and felt the flint at its centre give her strength, draw her back to her own land, to her land above the wave. She stepped backwards slowly.

And nearly tripped over something on the floor behind her.

The King was staring too. It was a white cat and she heard the King’s voice, surprised for the first time: ‘You!’

And then there was an end to it, and Tiffany and You spiralled back the way they had come, and the Feegles were outside, patrolling up and down and enjoying the happy opportunity of fighting a tree or two, since no elves had turned up, but these trees were still right scunners, stickin’ their barbs as they did into Feegle heads and beards. They deserved a guid kickin’.

‘Well, I’m not sure that did any good,’ Tiffany said to Rob as she emerged from the tunnel.

‘Weel,’ said Rob Anybody, ‘let them come. Ye will always have your Feegles. We Feegles are everlasting.’

‘Everlasting if there is enough to drink!’ Wee Dangerous Spike added.

‘Rob,’ said Tiffany firmly. ‘Right now, not one of you needs a drink. We need a plan.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The King will not help – yet. But he is looking for new entertainments. Perhaps if we offer him something of that ilk, then he will think more kindly upon us and at least leave us alone?’ Leave us to kill his elves, she thought to herself. He did say he wouldn’t mind. Would he change his mind?

‘Ach, nae problem,’ said Rob proudly, confident of his ability to find a PLN. ‘That King of the Elves, he needs some-thin’ tae do, ye say.’

‘Like the men of Lancre!’ Tiffany said suddenly. ‘Rob, you know how Geoffrey has them all building sheds... Well, you built a pub once. How difficult would a shed be?’

‘Nae trouble at all, right, lads?’ said Rob, happy now. For he had his PLN. ‘Let’s offski.’ He looked down at You. ‘How come your pussycat follows you around, mistress?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tiffany. ‘She’s a cat. They can go anywhere. And after all, she was Granny Weatherwax’s cat and that means quite a lot.’

But Rob wasn’t listening. Not now. He was thinking of his PLN. And the following day, at the mouth of the Long Man there was a shed replete with everything a gentleman could require, including fishing line and every tool you can think of, all made of wood or stone. Tiffany thought that might make the King of the Elves happy. But she did not feel it would get his help...

Lord Peaseblossom lounged on a velvet-covered couch in Fairyland, idly fingering the ruff of feathers around his neck, swigging from a goblet of rich wine.

Lord Lankin had just entered the chamber. He bowed before his new king, a glorious red broom of a tail slung casually round his neck, a memento of a recent raid. ‘I believe, my lord,’ he said lazily, silkily, ‘that our warriors will soon wish for... greater enjoyments in the human world. The barriers seem weak, and those of us who slip through to hunt are finding no real opposition.’

Peaseblossom smiled. He knew that his elves had been testing the gates, some skipping through the red stones of Lancre whilst others had gambolled near the villages of the Chalk, wary only of the little red-haired men who liked nothing more than a fight with an elf. The elves were like the Feegles in one respect – if there was nobody to fight, they would fight amongst themselves. And squabbling was de rigueur in Fairyland – not even cats were as bad.fn3

And elves could take umbrage. They loved umbrage, and as for sulking, that was a top entertainment. But everywhere they had been, they had stirred up little pockets of trouble, being nuisances, causing damage for damage’s sake. Stealing sheep, cows, even the occasional dog. Only yesterday Mustardseed had gleefully snatched a ram from its flock on the hills and then loosed it in a small china shop, laughing as it had lowered its horns and – yes – rammed the shelves.

But there was no rhyme nor reason to it. They needed to show what they could really do. Perhaps, Peaseblossom mused, the time was afoot to lead his elves on a raid that all elves would sing about for a long time to come.

A smile flickered across his thin, sharp face, and he waved a hand in the air, changing his tunic instantly to one of leather and fur, a crossbow tucked into his belt.

‘We will put a girdle of glamour around their world,’ he laughed. ‘Go, my elves, go make your mischief. But when this still-bent moon swells to her full glory, we will go together in force. That land will be ours once more!’

In her father’s barn, Tiffany was watching Nightshade wake up. She had mixed up a new tonic for her yesterday: a good strong dose of reciprocal greensfn4 which had made the elf sleep deeply for a whole day, giving her body a chance to regain its strength.

And, incidentally, giving Tiffany a chance to go round the houses without worrying about what the Feegles might do in her absence. I might even have time to fly to Lancre and check on Geoffrey if I do it once more, she thought. She knew the Feegles would never hurt a sleeping elf, but one awake? Well, their instincts might just take over if Nightshade should put a single dainty finger wrong. And, of course, she didn’t trust the elf either...

‘Time for a walk,’ she said as Nightshade stretched her limbs and looked around her as she woke. ‘I think it is time you saw a few more humans.’ For how else could she teach Nightshade about how this world worked if Nightshade mostly only saw the inside of the barn and a few ready-to-boil-over Feegles?

So she took Nightshade down into the village, past the pub where the men were sitting looking glumly at their beer, fishing the occasional barrel gushie out of it, past the small shops, picking her way carefully over the debris outside Mrs Tumble’s Plates for All Seasons, down the road and back up into the downs. Tiffany had asked her dad to let people know she was trying out a girl to help mix her medicines, so nobody really looked directly at her, but Tiffany had no doubt that they would all have taken in every single detail as she passed. It was why she had insisted on Nightshade’s dairymaid’s dress being toned down, so there were now no bows, no ribbons, no buckles, and a decent pair of boots rather than dainty slippers.

‘I have been watching humans,’ said Nightshade as they were clumping back up the road. ‘And I can’t understand them. I saw a woman giving an old tramp a couple of pennies. He was nothing to do with her, so why would she do that? How does it help her? I don’t understand.’

‘It’s what we do,’ said Tiffany. ‘The wizards call it empathy. That means putting yourself in the place of the other person and seeing the world from their point of view. I suppose it’s because in the very olden days, when humans had to fight for themselves every day, they needed to find people who would fight with them too, and together we lived – yes, and prospered. Humans need other humans – it’s as simple as that.’

‘Yes, but what good would the old lady get from giving away her money?’

‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘she will probably feel what we call a little glow, because she has helped someone who needed help. It will mean that she is glad that she is not in his circumstances. You could say that she can see what his world is like, and – what can I say? – she comes away feeling hopeful.’

‘But the tramp looked as if he could do a job of some sort, to earn his own pennies, but nevertheless she gave him hers.’ Nightshade was still struggling to understand the human concept of money – the elves, of course, could simply make it appear whenever they willed.fn5

‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany, ‘that sort of thing does happen, but not always, and the old lady will still feel she has done the right thing. He may be a bit of a scamp but she tells herself that she is a good person.’

‘I saw a king in your land before – Verence – and I watched him and he didn’t tell people what they should do,’ Nightshade continued.

‘Well, he has a wife to tell him what to do,’ laughed Tiffany. ‘That’s what humans are. Right up to our kings and queens, our barons and lords. Our rulers rule by consent, which means that we like having them as rulers, if they do what we want them to do. There were a lot of battles long ago, but there again everyone finally realized that it was better to work peacefully with everyone else. For one person alone cannot survive. We humans definitely need other people to keep us human.’

‘I notice that you don’t use magic very much either,’ Nightshade added. ‘Yet you are a witch. You are powerful.’

‘Well, what we witches have found is that power is best left at home. Magic is tricky anyway, and it can turn and twist and get things wrong. But if you surround yourself with other humans you will have what we call friends – people who like you, and people you like.’

‘Friends.’ Nightshade rolled the word, and the idea, around in her head and then asked, ‘Am I your friend?’

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘You could be.’ She looked at the people passing by and said to Nightshade, ‘Look, try this. There’s an old woman trying to carry a very heavy basket up the hill. Go and help her, will you, and see what happens.’

The elf looked horrified. ‘What do I say to her?’

‘You say, “Can I help you, mistress?”’

Nightshade gulped, but she crossed the road and spoke to the old woman, and Tiffany listened and heard the old woman saying, ‘What a kind girl you are, thank you very much. Bless you for helping an old lady.’

To Tiffany’s surprise, Nightshade carried the basket not only over the hill but also along the next stretch of the road, and she heard her ask, ‘How do you live, lady?’

The old lady sighed. ‘Little by little. My husband died years ago, but I am good with the needle and so I make things. I don’t need charity. I get along and I have still got my home. As we say, worse things happen at sea...’

As Nightshade watched the woman go away, she said to Tiffany, ‘Can you give me some money, please?’

‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘witches seldom have money about their person – we don’t live in that kind of world.’

Nightshade brightened up. ‘I can help then,’ she said. ‘I’m an elf and I am sure I could get into a place where the money is.’

‘Please do not try that,’ said Tiffany. ‘There would be a lot of trouble.’

She ignored a grumble from the side of the road, ‘Nae if you don’t get caught.’

‘We is guid at gettin’ intae places, ye ken,’ another Feegle muttered.fn6

Nightshade paid the Feegles no heed. She was still puzzling. ‘That old woman had absolutely nothing, but she was still cheerful. What did she have to be cheerful about?’

‘Being alive,’ said Tiffany. ‘What you are seeing, Nightshade, is someone making the best of things, which is something else humans do. And sometimes the best of it is good.’ She paused. ‘How did it make you feel?’ she asked. ‘Carrying that basket.’

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 finish 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 Pigeon 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.’

Nightshade stood up. ‘A glamour from Peaseblossom?’ she said. ‘This will be no trouble to remove. That elf is weak. And yes, I will help you, Tiffany. You are my... friend.’ The word sounded odd in her voice, but there was no doubt that she meant it.

So she went down into the fields with Tiffany, past the skittish sheep in the yard – some of whom, courtesy of the ever-present Feegles, had just broken the county record for stream-to-yard time, one young lamb actually doing so on one leg – and down to the boiling water.

Where she did indeed put it right.

And the tiny little glow inside began to smoulder...

The old barn behind Mr Sideways’s shed was full of miscellaneous weaponry, souvenirs from many conflicts, lovingly oiled and meticulously labelled.

‘I’ve been collecting them,’ Mr Sideways said proudly. ‘Every campaign I bin in and more besides. You should always keep your weapons handy. I mean, I don’t say anything bad about the trolls and the dwarfs, but we fought them more’n once and so I say, you always have to make sure. Somebody says something and before you know it, we’re knee-deep in dwarfs. They give you the up and under. You can’t trust ’em with the up and under.’

Geoffrey looked around the walls of the barn in astonishment. The machinery of death was everywhere, if you looked at it properly. And there he was, this smiling old man with whom he’d just been sharing a cup of tea, eyes sparkling, ready to face the foe, especially if it wasn’t human. And he was known as Laughing Boy? What would he have been like if he had been known as Scowling Boy?

‘I can turn a lathe as good as anybody,’ Mr Sideways said.

‘A lathe,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You get swarf, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes, terrible stuff if it gets in your eye.’ He smiled. ‘And it could be useful for something.’ There was a moment when he almost led Geoffrey back out again, but then he could not hold it in any longer – he had to show the boy what he had been working on. ‘Come, lad,’ he said. ‘Have a look at this. It was going to be a secret until it was finished, but of course I can tell you.’

At the back of the barn there was a huge shape covered with a tarpaulin. Mr Sideways led Geoffrey over to it, reached up and gave the tarpaulin a tug, and as it fell away Geoffrey gasped.

The machine looked like a great metal grasshopper, with a counterweight at one end, and an enormous leather sling at the other. As he gazed at the machine in astonishment, Geoffrey realized that he had seen something similar in the books Mr Wiggall had shown him at home. He said, ‘This looks dangerous.’

‘I hope so,’ said Mr Sideways. ‘I’ve always wanted one of these, ever since I saw them in action. The dwarfs had ones a bit like this which could throw a troll flat on his back. Those dwarfs know a thing or two, I must say, and I’m very big on gnome defence.’ He coughed. ‘Got the idea to build one after I’d been watching the lads down the pub do the Stick and Bucket dance.’fn4

‘So I see,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Captain Makepeace is very impressed,’ Mr Sideways added. ‘So me and the boys are going to try it out tomorrow, but nowhere anyone can see us.’

These old gentlemen have certain qualities, Geoffrey thought. Just because they are old doesn’t mean they can’t be powerful.

fn1 Quite correct. As the common joke says, most inhabitants of Slice are more than one slice short of a loaf.

fn2 It appears to be a fact of life that if two or more well-born ladies should gather together, cupcakes are essential. Otherwise the ceiling might fall on them.

fn3 A very kind term for Agnes, used only by her friends.

fn4 A dance that should only be performed when no women are nearby. If you saw it, you would know why.

CHAPTER 17

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