The Shepherd's Crown (25 page)

Tiffany said,
‘I am amazed. Just like that?’

‘Trust me,’ said Queen Magrat. ‘Crowns are important, you know.’

Tiffany flew back to the Chalk feeling a bit happier. Magrat would be a useful ally, and perhaps Letitia would be able to help too. But we are still short of witches, so we must take pains to get more, she thought.
Furious
pains. That means pulling in every witch and likely witch to learn at least
some of the craft and how to deal with the glamour of elves.

Elves! Nastiness for the sake of being nasty. As Granny Aching had told her, they would take away the stick of a man with no legs. Nasty, unpleasant, stupid, annoying – trouble and discord just for the pleasure of it. Worse. They brought actual horror, and terror, and
pain
 . . . And they laughed, which was bad enough because their laughter
was actually musical and you could wonder why such wonderful music could come from such unpleasant creatures. They cared for nobody except themselves and possibly not even that.

But Nightshade . . . Perhaps there
was
one elf for whom the wheel was turning. Especially the
iron
wheels . . .

^fn1
It had been in
The Goode Childe’s Booke of Faerie Tales
and told how two little elves secretly helped a poor shoemaker, but sadly experience had taught Tiffany that a lot of what was in that book bore no relation whatsoever to the real Fairyland.

^fn2
Most princesses never tried to kiss toads, however, which had been a source of sadness to the Feegles’ toad lawyer for many years.

CHAPTER 15

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 memory
^fn1
– ‘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.