The Shepherd's Crown (8 page)

The whole forest now sang for Granny Weatherwax.

Tiffany saw a fox sidle up, bow and then run away because a wild boar had arrived, with
its family of piglets. Then there was a badger, paying no heed to those who had come earlier, and it remained, and Tiffany was astounded when creature after creature settled down near the grave and sat there as if they were domestic pets.

Where is Granny now? Tiffany wondered. Could a part of her still be . . . here? She jumped as something touched her on the shoulder; but it was just a leaf.
Then, deep inside, she knew the answer to her question:
Where is Granny Weatherwax?

It was:
She is here – and everywhere.

To Tiffany’s surprise, Nanny Ogg was weeping gently. Nanny took another swig from her flagon and wiped her eyes. ‘Cryin’ helps sometimes,’ she said. ‘No shame in tears for them as you’ve loved. Sometimes I remember one of my husbands and shed a tear or two. The memories’re
there to be treasured, and it’s no good to get morbid-like about it.’

‘How many husbands have you actually had, Nanny?’ asked Tiffany.

Nanny appeared to be counting. ‘Three of my own, and let’s just say I’ve run out of fingers on the rest, as it were.’ But she was smiling now, perhaps remembering a
very
treasured husband, and then, bouncing back from the past, she was suddenly her normal cheerful
self again. ‘Come on, Tiff,’ she said, ‘let’s go back to
your
cottage. Like I always says, a decent wake don’t happen by itself.’

As they made their way back to the cottage, Tiffany asked Nanny the question which had been burning in her mind. ‘What do you think will happen next?’

Nanny looked at Tiffany. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Granny wasn’t exactly the head witch . . . except that most
people thought she was . . .’

‘There ain’t no such thing as a head witch, Tiff, you know that.’

‘Yes, but . . . if Granny’s not here any more, do you become the not-head-witch?’

‘Me?’ Nanny Ogg laughed. ‘Oh no, dear, I’ve had a very good life, me, lots of children, lots of men, lots of fun and, yes, as witches go, I’m pretty good. But I never thought of steppin’ into Esme’s shoes. Ever.’

‘Well, who is, then? Someone’s got to.’

Nanny Ogg scowled and said, ‘Granny never said as she was better than others. She just got on with it and showed ’em and people worked it out for themselves. You mark my words, the senior witches will get together soon enough to talk about this, but I know who Granny would choose – and it’s as I would too.’ She stopped and looked serious for a moment. ‘It’s
you, Tiff. Esme’s left you her cottage. But more’n that. You must step into the shoes of Granny Weatherwax or else’n someone less qualified will try an’ do it!’

‘But— I can’t! And witches don’t have leaders! You’ve just
said
that, Nanny!’

‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘And you must be the best damn leader that we don’t have. Don’t look at me sideways like that, Tiffany Aching. Just think about it. You
didn’t try to earn it, but earn it you has, and if you don’t believe me, believe Granny Weatherwax. She tol’ me that you was the only witch who could seriously take her place, she said that on the night after you run with that hare.’

‘She never said anything to me,’ said Tiffany, feeling suddenly very young.

‘Well, she wouldn’t say nothing, o’ course she wouldn’t,’ said Nanny. ‘That’s not Esme’s
way, you know that. She would have given a grunt, and maybe said, “Well done, girl.” She just liked people to know their own strengths – and your strengths are formidable.’

‘But, Nanny, you are older, more experienced, than me – you know lots more!’

‘And some of it I wants to forget,’ said Nanny.

‘I’m far too young,’ Tiffany wailed. ‘If I wasn’t a witch, I’d still just be thinking of
boyfriends
.’

Nanny Ogg almost jumped on her. ‘You’re not too young,’ she said. ‘Years ain’t what’s important here. Granny Weatherwax said to me as you is the one who’s to deal with the future. An’ bein’ young means you’ve got a lot of future.’ She sniffed. ‘Lot more’n me, that’s for sure.’

‘But that’s not how it works,’ Tiffany said. ‘It ought to be a senior witch. It has to be.’ But her Second Thoughts
then leaped up in her head, challenging her. Why? Why not do things differently? Why should we do things how they have always been done before? And something inside her suddenly thrilled to the challenge.

‘Huh!’ Nanny retorted. ‘You danced with the hare to save the lives of your friends, my girl. Do you remember being so . . . angry that you picked up a lump of flint and let it dribble between
your fingers as if it was water? All the senior witches were there, and they took their hats off to you. You! Hats!’ She stomped off towards the cottage, with just one parting shot. ‘And remember, You chose you. That cat there, she went to
you
when Esme up and left.’

And there the white cat was, sitting on the stump of an old birch, preening herself, and Tiffany wondered. Oh yes, she wondered.

Just as they got back to the cottage, a dishevelled but very large wizard was trying to land his broomstick by the goat shed.

‘It is good of you to come, Mustrum,’ Nanny Ogg shouted across the garden, as the gentleman smoothed down his robes, trod carefully past the herbs and doffed his hat to them – Tiffany noticed with glee that he had tied it onto his head with string. ‘Tiff, this is Mustrum
Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University.’

Tiffany had only met one or two wizards, and they had mostly been of the type that relied on the robes, pointy hat and staff to make their point, hoping that they never had to actually
do
anything magical. On the face of it, Ridcully looked exactly the same – beard, big staff with a knob on the top, a pointy hat . . . wait, a pointy hat with a
crossbow
tucked into the hatband? The witch side of her stepped back and watched carefully. But Ridcully was not interested in her at all. To her astonishment, the Archchancellor actually appeared to be
crying
.

‘Is it true, then, Nanny? Has she really gone?’

Nanny gave him a handkerchief and as he blew noisily into it, she whispered to Tiffany, ‘He and Esme were, well, you know, good friends
when they were younger.’ She winked.

The Archchancellor seemed to be overcome. Nanny handed him her flagon. ‘My famous remedy, your worship. Best to drink it down in one great gulp. Works a right treat for melancholy, it does. Whenever I’m a bit unsure of myself I drinks a lot of it. Medicinal use only, o’ course.’

The Archchancellor took the flagon, swigged down a couple of gulps in one go
and then flourished it at Nanny. ‘Here’s to Esmerelda Weatherwax and lost futures,’ he said in a voice choked with sorrow. ‘May we all go round again!’ He removed his hat, unscrewed the pointy bit and brought out a small bottle of brandy and a cup. ‘For you, Mrs Ogg,’ he boomed. ‘And now, may I see her, please?’

‘We have laid her down already, where she wanted to rest,’ said Nanny. ‘You know
how it is. She didn’t want no fuss.’ She looked at him, and continued, ‘I’m very sorry about that, Mustrum, but we’ll take you to the spot where she is now. Tiffany, why don’t you lead the way?’

And thus the most important wizard in the world respectfully followed Tiffany and Nanny Ogg through the woods to the last resting place of the most important witch in the world. The trees surrounding
the little clearing were full of birds, singing their souls out. Nanny and Tiffany held back to allow the wizard a private moment by the grave. He sighed. ‘Thank you, Mistress Ogg, Mistress Aching.’

Then the Archchancellor turned to Tiffany and looked at her properly.

‘For the sake of Esmerelda Weatherwax, my dear, if you ever need a friend, you can call on me. Being the most important wizard
in the world must mean
something
.’ He paused. ‘I have heard of you,’ he said, and at her gasp, he added, ‘No, don’t be surprised. You must know that we wizards keep an . . . eye on what you witches do. We know when the magic is disturbed, when something . . .
happens
. And so I heard about the flint. Was it true?’ His voice was brusque now – a man who did not do small talk, only big talk, and in
a big voice too.

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘All of it.’

‘My word,’ said Ridcully. ‘And now I feel certain that your future is going to be, let us say, very speckled. I can see the signs in you, Mistress Tiffany Aching – and I know many people of power, people who have so much power that they don’t have to wield it. You are hardly into your prime, yet I see this in you, and so I live in wonder about
what you might do next.’ His face now fell and he continued, ‘Would you ladies now leave me alone with my feelings. I am sure I can find my way back to the cottage.’

Later on, the Archchancellor walked back to his broomstick and Tiffany and Nanny Ogg watched him disappear in the general direction of Ankh-Morpork. The broomstick itself was wobbling about as he rose over the woods in a final salute.

Nanny smiled. ‘He is a wizard. He can be sober when he likes, and if he ain’t, well, he can fly a broomstick well enough with a brandy or two inside him. After all, there’s not much to bump into up there!’

As the morning progressed, more and more people were coming to pay their respects at the little cottage. The news had spread, and it seemed like everybody wanted to leave a gift for Granny
Weatherwax. For the witch who had always been there for them, even if they hadn’t actually
liked
her. Esme Weatherwax hadn’t done nice. She’d done what was
needed
. She’d been there for them when they called at the cottage, she’d come out at whatever time of day or night when asked (and sometimes when
not
, which hadn’t always been comfortable), and somehow she had made them feel . . . safer. They
brought hams and cheeses, milk and pickles, jams and beer, bread and fruit . . .

It also seemed that broomsticks were coming through the trees from everywhere, and there was nothing a witch appreciated more than a bit of free food – Tiffany caught one elderly witch trying to stuff an entire chicken up her knickers. And as the witches turned up, the villagers began to melt away. It didn’t do to
be around that many witches. Why risk it? Nobody wanted to be turned into a frog – after all, who would bring in the harvest then? They started to make their excuses and sidle off, with those who had partaken of Nanny Ogg’s famous cocktails sidling in a rather wobbly fashion.

None of the witches had been invited, but it seemed to Tiffany they had been drawn there, just like the Archchancellor.
Even Mrs Earwig turned up. She came in a carriage and pair, complete with black plumes, and her arms jingled with bangles and charms – as if the percussion section of an orchestra had suddenly fallen off a cliff – while her hat was festooned in silver stars. Her husband was dragged along beside her. Tiffany felt sorry for the man.

‘Hail, sisters, and may the runes protect us on this momentous
occasion,’ Mrs Earwig pronounced,
just
loud enough to be heard by the remaining villagers – she did like to advertise her witchiness. She gave Tiffany a long stare, which infuriated Nanny Ogg.

Nanny made the briefest possible bow, then turned and said, ‘Look, Tiffany, here’s Agnes Nitt. Wotcha, Agnes!’

Agnes – a witch with a waistline that suggested she had a similar attitude to eating as the
Feegles’ kelda – was out of breath, saying, ‘I’ve been touring in Stackpole’s
Much Ado About Everybody
. I was in Quirm when I heard and I came as fast as I could.’

Tiffany hadn’t met Agnes before, but from one look at her sensible face and good-natured smile, she thought she would probably get along with her very well indeed. Then she was overcome with delight as a broomstick wobbled down to
land and she heard the familiar ‘Um’ of her friend Petulia.

‘Um, Tiffany, I heard you were here. Um, do you want some help with making any sandwiches?’ Petulia offered, waving a big side of bacon as she landed. Petulia was married to a pig farmer and was acknowledged to be Lancre’s best pig-borer.
^fn1
She was also one of Tiffany’s very best friends. ‘Dimity is here too, and, um, Lucy Warbeck,’
Petulia continued – the ‘um’s always got worse when she was in the company of other witches; amazingly, she never used the word when pig-boring, which had to say something about Petulia and pigs.

Tiffany and Nanny Ogg’s grandsons had put up some makeshift tables. After all, everybody knows what a funeral is really for and most people like eating and drinking whatever the occasion. There was music,
and over it all, Agnes’s heavenly voice. She sang the ‘Columbine Lament’, and as its soft tune wafted over the roof and into the forest beyond, Nanny said to Tiffany, ‘That voice could make the trees cry.’

And there was dancing, no doubt helped along by Nanny Ogg’s brews. Nanny Ogg could get any party singing and dancing. It was a gift, Tiffany thought. Nanny could jolly up a graveyard if she
put her mind to it.

‘No long faces for Granny Weatherwax, please,’ Nanny proclaimed. ‘She’s had a good death at home, just as anyone might wish for. Witches know that people die; and if they manages to die after a long time, leavin’ the world better than they went an’ found it, well then, that’s surely a reason to be happy. All the rest of it is just tidyin’ up. Now, let’s dance! Dancin’ makes
the world go round. And it goes round even faster with a drop o’ my home liquor inside you.’

Up in the roof of Granny’s cottage, swinging from the boughs of the little tree that grew out of the thatch, the Nac Mac Feegles – Rob Anybody, Daft Wullie, Big Yan and the gonnagle, Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin – were in agreement with the latter part of that statement, though they were keeping the dancing
for later, mind. They stayed mostly out of sight, spotted only by one or two of the more observant witches, but now they came down to the scullery where Tiffany was starting on what the elderly, more senior witches always expected the younger girls to do – clearing up. The senior witches were beginning to gather together outside; it was time to discuss the appointment of a new incumbent to Granny
Weatherwax’s steading, and Tiffany wanted to keep out of the way while she thought about what she might say.