The Shepherd's Crown (34 page)

‘May I announce His Royal Ambassadorship Geoffrey Swivel,’ proclaimed the herald, breaking into a few notes on the trumpet he held.

Geoffrey’s mother sobbed with delight, while his father – a man on whom no calm-weaving would
ever
work – boiled inside with fury as he had to bow to the son he had treated as a nobody. But no one argued with the power of a crown.

There was a purpose to this visit,
though. After the usual bowing, scraping and general knee-bending any royal emissary took as his due, Geoffrey grinned around at the assembled company and said, ‘Father, I have exciting news! Those of us in the country may oft feel neglected by those in the big city but let me assure you, this is not the case. There have, in fact, been important developments just recently in the field of . . .
chicken runs
. Some young people in Ankh-Morpork . . . young people whose parents have the power to indulge their wishes’ – and he tapped his nose with a finger to show that he expected his father to know these important parents – ‘feel that it may no longer be necessary to hunt sly old Mister Reynard to protect our chickens.’ He beamed. ‘They have come up with a new chicken run which is
totally impervious
to foxes. And you, Father, are the lucky, lucky landowner who has been chosen to test this new design.’

As his father spluttered, and his brother Hugh shouted ‘Hurrah!’ for no particular reason except that it felt like someone should, Geoffrey looked around. He could see his mother’s face. Normally she looked like someone the world had trodden on so many times that it was almost an
invitation to tread on her yourself, but now she stood tall, her chin high.

‘Harold. Our son has worked wonders, and here is a king honouring him and treating him as a friend,’ she said proudly. ‘Don’t you look at me like that, Harold, for today I have spoken. And the Queen of Lancre has invited me to come and visit her,’ she added with satisfaction.

There was a bleat from Mephistopheles, and
as Geoffrey’s father turned to stamp away, the goat turned its back and aimed a square set of devilish hooves right onto Lord Swivel’s rump. Followed by a raucous fart that almost – but not
quite
– covered up the noise of the man falling flat on his face.

‘A most usefully offensive goat,’ Geoffrey murmured to McTavish, who had come to stand by his side.

The old stable-lad looked around. ‘
And
one your father cannot touch,’ he said with a wink. ‘Not with that fancy coat on its back.’ He sniffed. ‘My word, though, Mephistopheles isn’t easy on the nose – he whiffs even worse than I remember.’

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but he can climb trees.
And
use a privy. Even count. He’s a strange creature; he can turn a dark day into a clear one. Look into his eyes sometime.’

And McTavish looked,
and then hastily looked away.

^fn1
Shawn Ogg, in another of his royal duties.

EPILOGUE

A Whisper on the Chalk

TWO DAYS AFTER
the battle, Tiffany led one of the farm horses up to the hills above the farm. It was a perfect early autumn’s day. There was a wonderful cerulean sky, buzzards screaming overhead and a clear view towards the distant mountains of Lancre, their tops still covered in snow even at this time of year.

There were always a handful of sheep up in this part
of the downs, whatever the weather. At this time of year there were half-grown lambs kicking their heels and chasing about while the ewes grazed nearby. Here was a well-known landmark for those who knew. A special place for sheep and farmers alike. The place where Granny Aching now lay beneath the turf.

Only the iron wheels of her hut and the old pot-bellied stove with its chimney were still
visible, but the ground, the ground was holy: Tiffany came to look at it every time she felt the world grinding her down, and here, where the wind never stopped blowing, she felt that she could deal with anything.

With the help of the horse and a strong rope, Tiffany hauled the rusty wheels out of the turf where they had been embedded, and painstakingly greased and coaxed them back together.
Rob Anybody had watched her for a while after she had rebuffed his offer to help, then departed with a puzzled look on his face, muttering about geases, and what he’d like to do to them.

The following day, Tiffany went to visit old Mr Block, the local carpenter. He had once made her a doll’s house when she was a little girl; now she had a bigger home in mind.

He was pleased to see her but was
startled when he discovered what she wanted from him.

‘Mr Block, I would like you to teach me to be a carpenter. I am going to build myself a hut – a shepherding hut.’

The carpenter was a kindly man and offered to help. ‘You are a witch,’ he said. ‘I’m a carpenter. A little hut like that wouldn’t take me long. Your granny was very good to our family and you helped my sister Margaret. I’d be
happy to do it for you.’

But Tiffany was very definite. ‘That’s nice of you,’ she said, ‘but all the work on this hut must be done by me. It will be mine, from top to bottom, and I will pull it to where the larks rise. And I’ll still be a witch when anyone should call. But there I will live.’ On my own, she thought to herself. For now, anyway, for who knew what the future might bring . . . And
her hand crept to her pocket, where she had Preston’s latest letter to savour.

And so Tiffany learned carpentry every evening after her day’s work was done. It took her some weeks to finish it, but eventually there was a new shepherd’s hut stationed close to Granny Aching’s grave.

There were three steps up to its wooden door, a horseshoe and a tuft of sheep’s wool – the sign of a shepherd –
already nailed in place there, and the roof arched over a small living space into which she had built a bed, a little cupboard, a few shelves and a space for a wash basin. From the bed, she could see out of a small window – see clear across the downs, right to the horizon. And she could see the sun rise, and set, and the moon dance through its guises – the magic of everyday that was no less magic
for that.

She loaded up the old farm horse again with the bedding from her little room in the farmhouse and her few possessions, said goodbye to her parents and headed up the hill in the late afternoon sun.

‘Are you sure, jigget, that this is what you really want?’ said her father.

‘Yes, it is,’ Tiffany replied.

Her mother cried and handed her a new quilt and a freshly baked loaf of bread
to go with the cheese Tiffany had made that morning.

Halfway up the hill, Tiffany turned to look down at the farm and saw her parents still arm in arm. She waved and carried on climbing without looking back again. It had been a long day. They were always long days.

Later that evening, once she had made her little bed in the hut, she went out to collect some kindling. The white cat, You, followed
close behind.

The little tracks of the Chalk were very familiar to Tiffany. She had walked along them with Granny Aching years ago. And as she reached the wood at the top of the rise, Tiffany thought she saw somebody walking through the dusky shadows under the trees.

Not just one person alone. There seemed to be two figures, both strangely familiar. Beside them, alert to every gesture, every
nod, every whistle, trotted two sheepdogs.

Granny Weatherwax, Tiffany thought. Side by side with Granny Aching, Thunder and Lightning at their heels. And the little words in her head came unbidden:
You are the shepherd’s crown, jigget. You are the shepherd’s crown
.

One of the figures looked over and gave her a brief nod, whilst the other paused and bowed her head. Tiffany bowed back, solemnly,
respectfully.

And then the figures were gone.

On the way back to the hut, Tiffany looked down at the cat and, on a sudden impulse, spoke to it.

‘Where is Granny Weatherwax, You?’

There was a pause, and the cat made a long
meow
, which appeared to end, ‘
Meow . . . vrywhere
.’ And then purred, just like any other cat, and rubbed her hard little head against Tiffany’s leg.

Tiffany thought of the
little spot in the woods where Granny Weatherwax lay. Remembered.

And knew that You had been right. Granny Weatherwax was indeed here. And there. She was, in fact, and always would be, everywhere.

There was a long stream of visitors to the shepherding hut once it became known that Tiffany was back on the Chalk for good.

Joe Aching came up to deliver some messages – and a new letter, from Preston!
– and bring Tiffany some things her mother had decided she needed. He looked around the neat little hut with approval. Tiffany had made the space very comfortable. He looked at the books on the shelf and smiled. Tiffany had left Granny Aching’s
Diseases of the Sheep
at the farm, but both
Flowers of the Chalk
and
The Goode Childe’s Booke of Faerie Tales
had their place by the little shepherd’s
crown he had given her. On the back of the door was a wooden peg on which hung her witch’s hat.

‘I reckon ye’ll find some use for this too,’ her father said as he took a bottle of Special Sheep’s Liniment (made according to Granny Aching’s recipe) out of his pocket and placed it on the shelf.

Tiffany laughed and hoped her father hadn’t heard the cry of ‘Crivens!’ from the roof of the hut.

He looked up as some dust fell down from where Big Yan sat on Daft Wullie to silence him. ‘I hope ye haven’t got woodworm already, Tiff.’

She laughed again as she gave him a hug to say goodbye.

Mr Block was an early visitor too. He puffed his way up the hill and found her settled in with You the cat sitting on her lap while she sorted rags.

Tiffany watched nervously as the old carpenter looked
around and under the hut with a professional eye. When he had finished, she gave him a cup of tea and asked him what he thought.

‘You’ve done well, lass. Very well. I have never seen a boy apprentice take to carpentry as quickly as this, and you are a girl.’

‘Not a girl,’ Tiffany said. ‘I’m a witch.’ And she looked down to the little cat beside her and said, ‘That’s so, isn’t it, You?’

Mr Block
looked at her suspiciously for a moment. ‘So did you use magic to make the hut, miss?’

‘I didn’t have to,’ said Tiffany. ‘The magic was already here.’

The End.

1948–2015

AFTERWORD

The Shepherd’s Crown
is Terry Pratchett’s final novel. It was written in his last year before he finally succumbed in early 2015 to the ‘embuggerance’ of posterior cortical atrophy. Terry had been diagnosed back in 2007, the year that he wrote
Nation
. At that time, Terry thought he might have less than two years to live and that brought a new urgency to his writing. He had
never been a slouch in this respect but now things were measured by the cost in writing time. If demands for his presence took him away from writing, it had to be really worthwhile, such as feeding the chickens or attending to his tortoises. He had so many more books he wanted to write.