The Shepherd's Crown (23 page)

Martin and Frank looked at each other, shocked, and then Frank reached out tentatively and poked a finger onto the tree. A sudden flash of images shot into his mind – gloriously colourful creatures in velvet and feathers, their bodies painted with woad, came tumbling down out of the trees. But there was nothing glorious about the pain and death
they were bringing with them. Then he saw a fur-lined hood bobbing in the waters of a flume, a hood that framed the head of Mr Slack. A Mr Slack who seemed to have somehow been slack enough to lose his body . . .

The two boys stumbled through the lumberjacks, heading for the trees, for the snowy ground that offered a chance of escape.

Not quickly enough. For with a sudden whistle, a storm of
elves came dancing from the trees – large, nasty elves, the feathers and velvets of their tunics making them seem like predatory birds swooping from the shadowy heights. The two boys shrank back, frozen to the spot.

And for a few minutes it was lumberjack versus elf, helped by the camp Igor, who said, ‘Keep touching the pineth, it troubleth them and they won’t know what day it is. And while they
are finding out, you can give them a real rollocking.’

The lumberjacks were not men who would run away from a fight, and the terrible metal of their axes destroyed more than one elf. But more and more elves were pouring into the camp, tipping over the little sheds, kicking at the logs so that they tumbled into the flumes any which way, the elves swinging into the heights of the trees and laughing
down at the camp. And there was something enchanting about them . . . something that crept behind the hard exteriors of the lumberjacks and made them fall to their knees, sobbing for their mothers, dropping their axes, easy prey for the victorious fairy folk . . .

‘I told you. Get yourselves
away
, get to the flumes, boys,’ Mr Slack shouted, chopping with his axe at an elf creeping up behind him.
‘Them flumes are faster than elves. I’ll be OK.’

Martin took him at his word – though Frank had seen the future and knew that ‘OK’ wasn’t really going to happen for Mr Slack – and leaped into the first bucket, Frank close on his heels, and Mr Slack pushed a lever – and the bucket was off! Down the flume snaking its way down the steep mountainside, round corners so terrible that they had to lean
from one side to the other to avoid falling. Soaked to the skin, a jumble of logs in front of them, behind them, alongside them, they tore along deep gorges, dodging arrows from arriving elves who were heading up the mountain like a deadly swarm of insects.

It was wild, it was exhilarating, it was
almost
getting killed – and the
almost
bit is what made it something they would feel able to talk
about later, though clearly getting killed would shut up most people.

It was also terrifying – the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to either boy. Even over the roar of the water, they could hear the screams of the lumberjacks from behind them. And there were . . . things coming down with them in the water that no one would want to look at too closely.

The journey ended in a pile
of logs. And the depot had many men, big strong men with metal in their hands, angry at the damage to the timber, and as they gathered to march up the mountain, there were laughs and shrieks from above – and then silence. The elves had gone.

The miller of Stank
^fn1
was a pious man, and the mill itself was complicated, with wheels turning all the time in various directions; his nightmare, which
he hoped never to see, would be a day when the mill broke down and all those complicated wheels spun off everywhere. But while they kept on turning, well, the miller was a happy man, for after all everybody needed bread.

Then one night the elves came, and oh, they started to interfere with his flour, making holes in the sacks and dropping an anthill into the grain, laughing at him.

But they
had made a big mistake.

The miller prayed to Om, but as he got no answer – or, rather, he got the answer in his head that he wanted Om to give him – he let the elves have it, and as the complicated wheels roared into action, they were surrounded by metal – wonderful metal, cold metal, all turning like clockwork.

And the miller locked all the doors so they couldn’t get out. He could hear the
screams all night, and when his friends then asked him how he could have done that, he just said, ‘Well, the mills of Stank grind slow, yet they grind ’em exceeding small.’

Down in the village of Slippery Hollow, Old Mother Griggs woke up with her hair in a terrible tangle – and a bed full of thistles, tearing into her aged skin . . . while an elf laughed in glee as its mount – a young heifer
– collapsed to her knees, exhausted from the night-time revels . . .

And an old, crabbed trader in Slice pushed his cart – his only means of survival – into the market square, singing, ‘A cabbage a day keeps the goblins away. And an onion a day makes the elv— Aargh!’

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?’