A crown for the shepherd who was there to herd away the predators.
A crown for the shepherd who could work with the best sheepdogs any shepherd could possibly have.
A shepherd’s crown.
And she heard again that voice: Tiffany Aching is the first among shepherds, for she puts others before herself . . .
A king of shepherds.
No . . . a queen.
She felt she needed to apologize to the crown, apologize for letting these elves come through and threaten this land, and so she said in a whisper, ‘I am Tiffany Aching and my bones are in the Chalk. Let the Chalk be cleansed!’
And the world changed.
In the city of Ankh-Morpork, Hex spat out a calculation for Ponder Stibbons – and he saw that an answer was underlined . . .
A prayer wheel spun in the monastery of Oi Dong, and the monks bowed down in gratitude . . .
While a little boy took his mother’s hand in the travelling now, and said, ‘Mummy, big nasties all gone . . .’ He had a wooden train in his other hand, and a little backpack of tools over one shoulder. Perhaps he will be an engineer in this new world when he grows up, his mother thought.
And in Fairyland, there was a sudden twang, as if a strand connecting the two worlds had suddenly snapped . . .
There was fighting still going on – it was hard to stop the Feegles once they got going – and Tiffany walked through it as if in a dream. The elves were trying to get away now, but the ground seemed to hold them down and she whispered, ‘I ask the Chalk, deliver to me the King of the Elves!’
The heavy dance of the land now had a different tempo.
Dust flew out, and there came suddenly the King of the Elves – the stink and his long hair and antlers were unmistakable. Oh, that stink! It had a life of its own. But in a way, Tiffany thought, it was a male stink of life.
The huge body loomed over her. ‘How now, Mistress Tiffany. I can’t say, “Well met again,”’ said the King. ‘But I must confess to . . . surprise. You surprised me before,’ he mused, ‘with the gift you left me. A . . . shed. What do you humans do with this place you call a shed?’ He sounded intrigued.
‘It is a place for . . . interests. Where the future can be founded,’ Tiffany said. ‘And a place where those who have lived many years may remember.’
‘I have many memories,’ said the King. ‘But I did not know that you had the power to offer me new entertainments, to draw me to new pleasures. Very few in this world or others are able to do so.’
And now, Tiffany thought, the King of the Elves did see her as more than a young girl. At this meeting she had respect. But he deserved respect too, so she bowed her head towards him, just a little.
‘May I apologize for the hotheads in my kingdom,’ he continued lazily, his voice smooth and delicious. ‘I find them a large annoyance. Quite possibly as you do.’ He glared at the quivering Peaseblossom, and then at the corpse of Nightshade. ‘You, elf, you killed my queen, my lady Nightshade, just for spite,’ he growled. And the King of the Elves brought himself upright and smacked Peaseblossom with a hand that killed, leaving the carcass just lying there, his careless and casual use of violence shocking Tiffany, despite all she knew of elves. ‘I’m sorry I had to do that,’ he said, ‘but they don’t understand anything else. The universe turns, alas; it turns and we have to accommodate change or move on. This is a good world we had here, mistress,’ the King said now. He shrugged. ‘It’s a shame about the iron. But perhaps as the universe turns, Mistress Tiffany, we might meet again, on a different turn and in more happy circumstances.’
‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, ‘we might. Now, begone from my land.’ Her voice was hard. And in the air there was the piercing sound of a whistle, with an answering screech as the early-morning train left Twoshirts station. ‘Listen, your majesty. That is the song of the five twenty-five for Lancre, and that is your future, my lord. A lifetime of metal if you stay.’
‘These mechanisms are interesting. There are tools in my shed, and I wonder if such “trains” could perhaps be made . . . without iron,’ said the King, adding wistfully, ‘I am a man of magic, so I should be able to have anything I want.’
‘But you can’t,’ said Tiffany. ‘The railways are not for you.’
And it seemed to her, as he left, that the King of the Elves was looking thoughtful.
As the final elves slipped away to limp back to their land, she turned to Rob Anybody. ‘Rob, let us bury the Lady Nightshade here, where she fell,’ she said quietly. ‘I will mark the spot with a cairn of stones. We will remember this day. We will remember her.’ Then she added softly, almost to herself: ‘We need to remember.’
fn1 There was plenty of all these to pick from in Lancre, so he had a good choice of battlegrounds. As long as they were all up and down.
fn2 Horace was a cannibal cheese, an adopted member of the Feegle clan.
CHAPTER 19
Peace
AS THE MORNING flowed into the day, the Feegles were settling down to a feast of drinking, eating and more drinking and telling tales, some of which were bigger than the Feegles themselves.
Rob Anybody looked at Tiffany and said, ‘Weel noo, mistress, the field is oor ain! Come on doon intae the mound. Jeannie would love tae see your sonsie face.’
And Tiffany slid into the mound, which seemed bigger than when she had seen it last. The great hall was full of leaping figures and flying kilts as the Feegles danced their reels – Feegles loved a reel at any time; the slap of boot on earth was like a challenge to the universe. Then, of course, every Feegle wanted every other Feegle to know how well they had conducted themselves against the elves.
Every single one of the younger Feegles was wanting Tiffany – their hag o’ the hills – to know how brave he had been. As they gathered around, she said, ‘What are your names, boys?’
Wee Callum, a little bit tongue-tied, said, ‘I’m Callum, mistress.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Tiffany.
‘Aye, mistress, and this is my brother, Callum.’
‘Two of you?’ she said. ‘Isn’t that difficult?’
‘Och no, I know who I am and he knows who he is and so does our other brother Callum.’
‘And how did you like the fighting?’
‘Och aye, we smited them weel enough. The Big Man is a hard task master, ye ken. He sees to it that we can handle the mace and the spear and the axe. And, of course, the feets. And when the three of us got one of they scunners doon on the ground, that’s what oor boots was for.’
The old boys were marching down the lane.
And they had a new song now, one that began: ‘Ar-sol, ar-sol, a soldier’s life for me!’ And with each verse, and each step, they were standing straighter and stronger.
‘Ar-sol, ar-sol, a soldier’s life for me!
For King, for King, for King and Constabulary,
We wee, we wee, we weaken the enemies,
For they don’t want it up ’em, don’t want it up ’em, don’t want it up and over!’
And those who had wives kissed them – the wives hadn’t seen their husbands so frisky for years – and then they set off down to the pub to tell their mates all about it.
With a pint resting happily in his hand, Captain Makepeace sat on a milestone outside the pub and declaimed, ‘People of Lancre. We happy few, we extremely elderly few, have scorned the horrible elves. They say that old men forget, but we won’t. Not by a long chalk. We thought we were old – but today we found we were still young.’
And then it was time for another round of drinks. And another, with everyone wanting to stand the old boys a round, until standing was no longer an option. And still the shout went up: Was there time for another flagon?
As the moon rose to herald the hours of darkness the following day there was Geoffrey on his broomstick, which was once again hovering in the air. Tiffany shouted over at him, ‘I still don’t know how you can do that!’
‘No idea, Tiffany – can’t e
veryone?’ he replied. ‘Let’s ask, for here comes everyone.’
And indeed, now the other witches were arriving, led by Nanny Ogg and Magrat. It was time to look to the future once again – a future not now filled with elves. But the present, well, the present was filled with the chattering and gossiping of witches as the tales of the two battles were shared.
Rob Anybody had set fire to a beacon and Tiffany watched the last witches circling until there was space, then coming in to land one after the other. Not one left her stick hovering, though – it seemed as if Geoffrey was the only one who could make his broomstick do that.
‘I wonder if they’re goin’ to sneak back,’ said Nanny Ogg after a while. ‘You can’t trust Old Hairy. He was tryin’ to charm you, Tiff, by what you say.’
‘I know, but I am not charmed,’ said Tiffany. ‘Not since the one elf who tried to be a good elf is now dead. We marked the spot where we buried her, Nanny, you know. And if they do try to come back, we will be ready for them. We can put iron on the stones here on the Chalk, like you’ve laid swarf all around the Dancers in Lancre.’ Her voice hardened. ‘There is iron in my soul now. And iron in dealing with them should they dare ever to return.’
‘Well,’ said Magrat the Queen, ‘we’ve knocked them down so often now that I think he means what he said. I think it’s unlikely they will come back.’
‘I’ll drink to them not coming back then,’ said Nanny Ogg.
‘Ladies, while we are gathered,’ said Tiffany, ‘I want to talk to you about Geoffrey. He has been a great strength to us – and I know you all saw how he made the old men of Lancre into a fighting force. He is clever and cunning and careful. He knows how to listen. And he has a kind of magic.’
‘That’s true,’ said Nanny. ‘Everybody likes Geoffrey. Somehow he seems to understand everybody. Believe me, even some of them old girls would be quite happy to have him deal with their aches and pains and worse. He calms people. You all know that. He is calm itself, and the calm stays even when he has left. He doesn’t just jolly people up. After he is gone, they are somehow much better – as if life was still worth havin’. People like that, like Geoffrey, well, they makes the world, well, better.’
‘I totally agree with you,’ said Mrs Earwig.
‘You agrees with me?’ said Nanny Ogg, almost speechless.
‘Yes, my dear, I do.’
And Tiffany thought, At last, we will have peace. ‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ she said under her breath. ‘Now we are all here,’ she said aloud, ‘I must tell you that I can’t manage Granny’s steading. I’m not going to sleep in Granny’s bed any more. Because I’m not her.’
Nanny grinned. ‘I wondered if’n you would do that, Tiff. You has to be your own woman after all.’
‘My roots are in the Chalk and the Chalk is my strength,’ Tiffany continued. ‘My bones will be part of these hills just like those of my Granny Aching.’
There was a murmur from the witches. They had all heard of Granny Aching by now.
‘And I have some very good boots too. Just as I cannot sleep in Granny Weatherwax’s bed, I cannot wear her boots either.’
Nanny chuckled. ‘I’ll collect ’em when I’m next up at the cottage, Tiff. I knows Esme’s boots, knows a young witch they’ll do very nicely for.’
‘Talking of young witches,’ Tiffany added, ‘Miss Tick has found me some girls with potential. May I send them up to the mountains to begin their training? I will have need of help in the Chalk in the future.’
The witches were nodding. Of course. For it was the way it was done: the young girls – Nancy Upright and Becky Pardon – would spend time with the senior witches and learn the beginning of their trade.
Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘And what I suggest is that Geoffrey be allowed to look after Granny Weatherwax’s cottage and steading for me,’ she said, looking at Nanny Ogg as she said that and getting a wink in return.
She glanced at Mrs Earwig and was surprised to see her nod and say, ‘He’s a very nice decent young man, and we have seen him at work, and now we live in the time of the railways so perhaps we should change our ways. Yes, I believe Mister Geoffrey should take care of Granny’s – Tiffany’s – steading in Lancre. He’s no witch, but he’s certainly much more than the usual sort of backhouse boy.’ And Tiffany could see Mrs Earwig’s mind working, and she felt certain that the next time she saw the witch, she would have a lad somewhere around her establishment.
Out loud, Nanny said, ‘What did you call him, Tiff? A calm-weaver? Shall we leave it at that for now?’
But Magrat wanted her say too. ‘Verence heard of what he did for the old men,’ she said. ‘He believes he should have a reward. And I think I know exactly what would suit . . .’
And thus, a few weeks later, Lord Swivel was most surprised to see his third son riding proudly up his long, long drive, a herald at his sidefn1 and a pennant with the royal insignia of Lancre fluttering in the breeze. The same insignia was also on a velvet coat over the flanks of Mephistopheles.
‘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.