The Shepherd's Crown (16 page)

And the rain started and became hail.

^fn1
Pronounced ‘Chuffley’ under that strange rule that the more gentrified a family is, the more peculiar the pronunciation of their name becomes. Tiffany had once heard a highborn visitor named Ponsonby-Macklewright (
Pwt
) refer to Roland as
Chf
. She wondered how they managed at dinner when
Pwt
introduced
Chf
to
Wm
or
Hmpfh
. Surely it could lead to misunderstandings?

CHAPTER 9

Good with Goats

THE BOY STANDING
in the rain looking at Tiffany at the back door of the cottage that was now hers – no longer Granny’s – was not like her usual visitor. He was grubby, yes, but it was the grubbiness of the road rather than that of poverty, and he had a goat with him, which wasn’t usual. But he didn’t look
in need
. She looked closer. His clothing had once been expensive,
high-class stuff.
Needy
, though, she thought. A few years younger than her too.

‘Are you Mistress Aching, the witch?’ he asked nervously as she opened the door.

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, thinking to herself, Well, at least he has done
some
homework and he’s not come knocking asking for Granny Weatherwax, and he’s knocked at the back door just as he should; and I’ve just made myself some pottage and
it will be going cold. ‘What can I do for you? I’m sure you need something?’ she continued, because a witch turned nobody away.

‘No, mistress, by your leave, but I heard people talking about you as I was walking along the road. They say you are the best witch.’

‘Well, folks can say anything,’ said Tiffany, ‘but it’s what the other witches think that matters. How can I help you?’

‘I want to
be a witch!’ The last word resonated in the air as if it was alive, but the boy looked serious and unhappy, and he ploughed on doggedly, saying, ‘Mr Wiggall – my tutor – told me of one witch who became a wizard, so surely, mistress, the concept must go both ways? They say what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, don’t they?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Tiffany, uncertain of herself. ‘But many
ladies do not like to deal with an unknown man, as it were, in private circumstances. A lot of our work involves being midwives, you know, with the accent on
wives
.’

The boy’s Adam’s apple was shaking, but he managed to say, ‘I know that in the big city the Lady Sybil Free Hospital helps women and men alike. There is no doubt about it, mistress, that when it comes to surgery, there are ladies
who are sometimes glad to see the surgeon.’ The boy seemed to brighten up for a moment and said, ‘I really feel I can be a witch. I know a lot about country things, and I have very little fingers which were of great use some while ago on the road, when I had to deal with a goat in labour, and it was in trouble. I had to roll up my sleeves and fiddle about with care to get the kid lined up to leave
his mother. It was messy, of course, but the kid was alive, and the old man who owned the goat was in tears of gratitude.’

‘Really,’ said Tiffany stonily, wondering when ‘good with goats’ had become a qualification for being a witch. But the boy looked like a lost soul – so she relented and invited him in for a cup of tea. The goat was shown an overgrown patch of Creepalong Minnie under the apple
tree, out of the rain, and seemed content to be left outside, although Tiffany could not help noticing – as any witch would notice – that it gave her an odd look of a kind not often seen in a goat’s slotted eyes. The type of look that makes you wary of turning your back, definitely, but something . . . more than that too.

As she beckoned the boy in, she saw You stroll past the apple tree and
suddenly stop, her back arching and her tail fluffing out to a remarkable size as she spotted the goat. There was a pregnant pause as the two eyed each other up – and Tiffany could have sworn she saw a quick flash of fluorescent light, greenish-yellow-purple – and then all was suddenly calm, as if there had been an agreement signed and sealed. The goat returned to its nibbling, and You subsided to
her normal size and strolled past, almost brushing against the goat’s legs. Tiffany was amazed. She had seen Nanny Ogg’s cat Greebo run from You! What kind of goat
was
this? Perhaps, she thought with interest, this boy is also more than he seems.

As they sat at the little kitchen table, she learned that the boy’s name was Geoffrey and that he was a long way from home. She noticed that he didn’t
seem to want to talk about his family, so she tried another tack.

‘I am intrigued, Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to be a witch instead of a wizard, which is something traditionally thought of as a man’s job?’

‘I’ve never thought of myself as a man, Mistress Tiffany. I don’t think I’m anything. I’m just me,’ he said quietly.

Good answer! Tiffany said to herself. Then she wondered, not
for the first time, about the differences between wizards and witches. The main difference, she thought, was that wizards used books and staffs to create spells,
big
spells about big stuff, and they were men. While witches – always women – dealt with everyday stuff.
Big
stuff too, she reminded herself firmly. What could be bigger than births and deaths? But why shouldn’t this boy want to be a
witch? She had chosen to be a witch, so why couldn’t he make the same choice? With a start, she realized it was her choice that counted here too. If she was going to be a sort of head witch, she should be able to decide this. She didn’t have to ask any other witches. It could be her decision. Her responsibility. Perhaps a first step towards doing things differently?

She looked at Geoffrey. There’s
something about this lad and I don’t know what it is, she decided. But he seems harmless and looks quite down-trodden, so I will decide, and I choose to give him a try. As for the goat . . .

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can give you some bedding in the lean-to, and some food and drink for today. Your goat is your responsibility. But it’s getting late now, so we will talk again tomorrow.’

Next morning,
whilst waiting for Nanny to drop by, Tiffany went to the lean-to with some food. The boy was asleep. She coughed carefully and the boy jumped at the sound.

‘Very well, Geoffrey, now tell me the truth. Are you running away from somebody? Parents, perhaps?’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Geoffrey, taking a mouthful of the bread Tiffany had brought but pushing the slice of ham to one side.

You little fibber,
thought Tiffany, like any witch good at spotting a lie.
^fn1
She sighed. ‘Are you just running away from home then?’

‘Well, you could say that, mistress, but I am sixteen and I just wanted to leave.’

‘Don’t get on with your father, do you?’ said Tiffany, and she saw the boy metaphorically jump, as if she’d hit a nerve.

‘How could you see that, mistress!’

Tiffany sighed. ‘It does say
witch
on
the door, doesn’t it? I might not be much older than you, but you aren’t the first runaway I’ve dealt with, and I’m absolutely certain there will be many more. Although,’ she added, ‘never one as highborn as you are, Mister Geoffrey. Good coat, you see. Well now, of what use can you be to me and my steading, Geoffrey?’

‘Oh, quite a lot, mistress,’ he said, trying to sound definite but just seeming
hopeful.

And at that moment Nanny Ogg came round the corner of the cottage, not there one minute and then suddenly there, which was, Tiffany knew, Nanny’s way. She looked at Geoffrey, made an instant judgement, then winked at Tiffany and said, ‘Anythin’ going on, Tiff?’ Tiffany saw a suggestive grin on Nanny’s wrinkled face, as if an apple was suddenly leering at her. Geoffrey looked as if he
was going to flee.

‘It’s all right, Nanny. Meet Geoffrey here,’ Tiffany said sharply. ‘He wants to be a witch.’

‘Really?’ Nanny chortled. ‘You mean he wants to do magic. Send ’im to the wizards!’

Now Geoffrey looked like a little fawn about to dash away. Nanny Ogg could affect people like that.

‘No, he wants to be a
witch
, Nanny. Do you understand?’

Tiffany saw a naughty little gleam in Nanny’s
eyes as she said, ‘So, he wants to be a witch, does he? Perhaps he should learn what us witches has to put up with before he decides proper like. I mean, he might still want to give them wizards a go if he’s got any magic in ’im. I know, make him a back-house boy.’ A backhouse boy was like a male scullery maid, doing all the odd, and usually dirty, jobs around the homestead. Things like killing
chickens and stringing pheasants, cleaning shoes, peeling potatoes and any other task that was messy, and occasionally dangerous. There was usually one on Home Farm, gradually learning what farming was all about. ‘I tells you what,’ Nanny continued, looking at the trembling boy, ‘let’s try him out with Mr Nimlet. You knows what his toenails is like.’

Yes, like all old men’s toenails, Tiffany
thought. She looked at the boy who was so terribly anxious to be helpful and took pity on him and said, ‘There’s more to being a witch than you think, Geoffrey, but if you’d like to be my back-house boy, we’ll see how you go. And first of all, I’d like you to do something about an old man’s horrible toenails.’

‘You may need a shield,’ said Nanny Ogg.

The boy looked at Tiffany questioningly.

‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany. ‘Mr Nimlet’s toenails tend to be thick and strong and very, very difficult to deal with. You need really sharp secateurs, and even then the blessed things go pinging off around the room. You have to be careful about your eyes too.’ She studied the boy’s face; he looked determined to meet any obstacle, even flyaway toenails. Nanny was grinning, so Tiffany said, ‘I’ve got a
birth to see to. Nanny, would you be kind enough to take Geoffrey to Mr Nimlet and see how he does. Oh, and tell him to remember to collect the clippings – Rob Anybody has a use for them, so he does.’

‘Can I take Mephistopheles with me?’ Geoffrey asked.

Nanny spun on her heels. ‘Mephis
what
?’ she said slowly.

‘My goat,’ Geoffrey said, pointing towards the paddock where Mephistopheles was investigating
the remains of the dandelion patch. ‘Or rather, he is his
own
goat, but we travel together. He is a very clever companion.’

Nanny snorted.

‘See,’ Geoffrey added proudly as they watched Mephistopheles daintily cross the paddock and nose open the door of the little shed by the beech tree. ‘He has even learned to use the privy.’

And Nanny – for once in her life – was speechless.

^fn1
Spotting the
truth
was much harder.

CHAPTER 10

Treasure

DEEP IN THE
heart of Fairyland, the triumphant Peaseblossom surveyed his court.

Lord Lankin – tall, elegant, a tunic of moss and gorse slung casually over his darkened skin – lounged by his side, toying with a bronze dagger.

‘I am your king now,’ Peaseblossom declared.

There was silence in the great hall as the elves considered this development and their chances. And one
bold elf said, ‘What about the King himself? Down in the barrow? What do you think he will say?’

‘Something like
this
,’ said Peaseblossom, hurling a feathered arrow at the elf, striking him down. Injured, but not dead. Good, Peaseblossom thought. More fun for me later. He gestured to his warriors and the stricken elf was dragged away. ‘To hell with the King!’ he said, and this time there was
no argument.

Every elf knew that Peaseblossom wanted a showdown with the world of humans, of dwarfs and goblins and all the other peoples, wanted elves to run free and fierce through that world once again.

‘We have been elves since the dawn of time,’ Peaseblossom thundered. ‘Too long have humans had the upper hand. Upstart goblins will feel our wrath! The hootings of mechanical rubbish will
be swept away! We will take back the world we have been denied!’ He smiled, and added softly, ‘Those who are not with us will suffer.’