The Shepherd's Crown (13 page)

Mrs Earwig had married an elderly retired wizard many years before. ‘Wizards ain’t allowed to get married,’ Nanny Ogg had told Tiffany scornfully. ‘But the silly man got what was comin’ to him. Talk about
hen-pecked, he was
earwig-
pecked. She got through all his money, so they says!’

Tiffany wisely didn’t rise to that; it was quite probable that ‘they’ were actually Nanny Ogg, who hated Mrs Earwig with an unrelenting determination.

But that was why she was relieved when Nanny Ogg wasn’t there when Mrs Earwig arrived at Granny’s cottage one morning a week or so later, for what she called ‘one
of her little chats’. It would have been better, on reflection, if Mrs Earwig hadn’t found Tiffany out in the garden up to her elbows in suds in the middle of doing some washing for old Mr Price.

Tiffany’s heart sank when she saw the woman coming,
^fn1
but she wiped her hands on a towel and welcomed her visitor into the cottage with as much politeness as she could muster. Mrs Earwig had a tendency
to treat Tiffany like a child, and also she had bad manners, such as sitting down without being asked. Mrs Earwig did, indeed, sit down in Granny’s old rocking chair, and she gave Tiffany a smile of blatant insincerity, then made it worse by saying, ‘My dear girl!’

‘
Woman
,’ said Tiffany quietly as Mrs Earwig looked her up and down. She was acutely conscious of the suds still clinging to her apron
and her dishevelled hair.

‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs Earwig, as if it didn’t matter. ‘Now, I thought I should come, as a friend and as one of the oldest witches in this area, to see how things were going and to offer some constructive advice.’ She looked around the kitchen with a superior air, with a
particularly
sharp glare at the dust that was happily playing little games with itself over
the stone flagstones, and Tiffany was suddenly very aware of the spiders which had remained in residence in the scullery, with lots of little ones adding to the colony – she hadn’t the heart to move them.

‘Don’t you think you are overstretched trying to look after two steadings, my dear?’ Mrs Earwig added with a saccharine smile.

‘Yes, my dear Mrs Earwig,’ Tiffany said back, rather sharply.
‘I
am
stretched because there is a lot to do in both places and not much time.’ Which you are taking up, she thought. But two can play at your game. ‘If you have some advice,’ she added with a smile to match Mrs Earwig’s, ‘I’ll be glad to hear it.’

Mrs Earwig was never one to ignore an invitation. Not that she had needed one, anyway, since she immediately launched into a prepared speech.

‘I’m
not saying you are a bad person, my dear. It’s just that you can’t cope, and people are talking about it.’

‘Perhaps they do,’ said Tiffany. ‘And often they thank me, but I am just one woman – that is
woman
, not girl – so I can’t do everything at once. It’s just a shame that there aren’t more elder witches around . . .’ Her voice trailed off, the memory of Granny Weatherwax lying in her willow
casket still too fresh in her mind.

‘I understand,’ said Mrs Earwig. ‘It isn’t your fault.’ Now her voice was silky smooth, but just a shade beyond patronizing and moving towards out and out rudeness. ‘You have indeed been flung into areas you can’t manage, and you are in fact far too young, dear Tiffany. To take the right steps on the path of Magick, you surely need the counsel of an elder witch.’
She sniffed. ‘A
serious
elder witch with the right . . . approach. No . . . family ties.’ And it was clear that she did not consider Nanny Ogg to be a candidate for this task.

Tiffany bridled. If there was one thing she hated more than ‘my dear girl’, it was ‘dear Tiffany’. And she well remembered the ‘counsel’ Mrs Earwig had given to her protégée Annagramma Hawkin, who had taken over a witch’s
cottage knowing everything possible about runes and tinkly spells but nothing at all useful.
She
had needed
Tiffany’s
help. As for implying that Nanny Ogg would not be a good mentor . . .

‘Well, my dear,’ Mrs Earwig continued, ‘as one of the most senior witches in this area, I therefore feel I should take the place of Granny Weatherwax. It’s the way it has always been done, and for a good reason
– people need a senior witch to be a person whom they can respect, someone they can look up to. After all, my dear girl, a witch of high standing would never be seen doing the washing.’

‘Really?’ said Tiffany, gritting her teeth. A
second
‘my dear girl’? One more and she would want not only to thrust Mrs Earwig into the suds but also to hold her head under for quite some time. ‘Granny Weatherwax
always said, “You do the good that is in front of you,” and I don’t care
who
sees me doing an old man’s washing. There’s lots to do and a lot of it is
dirty
, Mrs Earwig.’

Mrs Earwig flamed at that and said, ‘
Ah-wij
, my dear girl.’

‘Not my dear girl,’ Tiffany snapped. ‘Mrs
Earwig
’ – not a trace of
Ah-wij
– ‘your last book was called
To Ride a Golden Broomstick
. Can you tell me, Mrs Earwig, how
does it fly? Gold is rather heavy. You might say, in fact, that it is extremely heavy.’

Mrs Earwig growled. Tiffany had never heard her growl before but this one was a heavy-duty growl. ‘It’s a metaphor,’ she said sharply.

‘Really?’ said Tiffany. Now she was angry. ‘What’s it a metaphor
for
, Mrs Earwig? I’m on the sharp end of witchcraft, which means doing what should be done as best you can.
It’s all about the people, Mrs Earwig, not about the books. Have you ever gone round the houses, Mrs Earwig? Helped a kid with his arse halfway out of his trousers? Do you even
see
the little children with no shoes? The cupboards with no food in them? The wives with a baby every year and a man down the pub? You have been kind enough to offer some advice. If I may offer you some advice in return,
you will impress me if you too go round the houses – and not before. I am the acknowledged successor of Granny Weatherwax, who was brought up as a witch by Nanny Gripes, who learned it from witches going all the way back to Black Aliss, and that doesn’t change, whatever you might think.’ She stood up and opened the front door. ‘Thank you for taking the time to come and see me. Now, as you have
pointed out, I have lots to do. In my own way. And clearly you
haven’t
.’

One thing about Mrs Earwig, Tiffany thought, was that she could flounce. She flounced so much that it almost hurt. Things jingled a merry farewell around her, and one charm even made a spirited attempt to stay by hooking itself around the doorknob as Mrs Earwig turned at the threshold.

The last thing she said to Tiffany
as she untangled the little pendant was, ‘I tried, I really tried. I invited you to take advantage of all I know about witchcraft. But no. You flung my good will right in my face. You know, we could really have been friends, if you weren’t so stubborn. Farewell,
my dear girl
.’ Having got the last word in, Mrs Earwig slammed the door behind her as she left.

Tiffany looked at it and said to herself,
I do what is needful, Mrs Earwig, not what I want to do.

But the banging of the door as punctuation caused Tiffany to think and she thought suddenly, I want to do it my way. Not how the other witches think it should be done. I can’t be Granny Weatherwax for them. I can only be me, Tiffany Aching. But she realized something else too. ‘Mrs Earwig was right about at least one thing,’ she said aloud.
‘I
am
trying to do too much. And if Jeannie is right and there is something awful coming’ – she shuddered – ‘which I will have to deal with, well, I really hope Miss Tick can find me a girl who might be some use. I do need some help.’

‘Aye, would seem so,’ said the voice of Rob Anybody.

Tiffany almost exploded. ‘Are you always looking after me, Rob Anybody?’

‘Och aye. Remember, there’s a geas
upon us tae look after ye day and nicht and it’s a greet geas.’

A geas. Backed up by tradition and magic, Tiffany knew that a geas was an obligation no Feegle would ever fail to meet. Except Daft Wullie, of course, who often mixed up his ‘geas’ with a flock of big burdies. She understood all this, but it still rankled. ‘You watch me all the time? Even when I’m bathing?’ she said wearily. It was
a familiar argument. Tiffany – for no reason Rob could understand – seemed to take exception to the Feegles being around her
everywhere
. They had already come to an agreement about the privy.
^fn2

‘Och aye, that we do. Not lookin’, ye ken.’

‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘could you do me a favour?’

‘Och aye,’ said Rob. ‘Would you like yon Earwig wifie dropped in a pond or something?’

Tiffany sighed.
‘Alas, no. I’m not that kind of person.’

‘Ah, but we is,’ said Rob Anybody cheerfully. ‘And anyway, ’tis traditional, ye ken. And we are guid at tradition, bein’ as we are part of
folklore
 . . .’ He smiled hopefully.

‘A very nice thought,’ said Tiffany. ‘But no, once again, no. Mrs Earwig is not really a bad soul.’ That is true, she thought. Stupid, sometimes overbearing, unfeeling, and not
really, if you get down to it, a very good witch. But there is a steel there at the core.

Tiffany knew Nanny Ogg rarely did any washing – what were daughters-in-law for? – but she realized suddenly that she had never seen Granny Weatherwax doing any laundry for the old gentlemen either, and that thought stopped her for a moment. I need time to work this out, she thought, looking at the Big Man
of the Nac Mac Feegles standing in front of her, ready for anything. This would be a tough task for them, she knew.

‘I’ve a wee geas tae lay on ye,’ she said.

‘Och aye?’

‘Rob, have you heard of washing clothes?’

‘Och aye, we ken it happens,’ said Rob Anybody. He scratched at his spog and a mixture of dead insects, half-gnawed chicken’s foot bones and the like showered out.

‘Well then,’ said
Tiffany, ‘I would deem it a favour if you could spend some time in my scullery whilst I am about my business. You would be helping an old man, indeed you would. He likes to be clean, and to have clean clothes.’ She glared down at him. ‘A circumstance, Rob, which would be well considered by yourself.’

She approached the scullery door in trepidation when she got back from her visits. Everything
was shining clean, and draped among the trees outside were old Mr Price’s unmentionables, as white as white could be. Only then did Tiffany draw breath.

‘Excellent,’ she said to Rob Anybody.

He smiled and said, ‘Aye, we kenned this would be a tricky job.’

‘Good job I wuz with ye this time,’ came a voice. It was Wee Mad Arthur, a Feegle who didn’t mind washing, due to his having been raised
by a bunch of cobblers, and then being a polisman in the big city. Wee Mad Arthur, Tiffany often thought, had a battle raging inside him between his Feegle half and the city half, but since every Feegle liked a good punch-up, well, a fight inside yourself was just an extra treat.

Big Yan pushed Wee Mad Arthur aside and said, ‘We dinnae mind helping old bigjobs and getting them squeaky clean,
but we are the Feegles and we treasure our dirt. Washing makes a Feegle wither awa’. We cannae abide the soap, ye ken.’

‘Nae me, Rob. Nae me,’ came a happy voice and Daft Wullie fell off the wall of the goat paddock. Bubbles floated away on the air as he rolled across the grass.

‘I’ve told ye about that, Wullie,’ Rob snapped. ‘It just makes bubbles come out of your ears.’

Tiffany laughed. ‘Well,
you could make your own soap, Wullie. Make some for Jeannie. Take a wee present home to your kelda. It’s easy to make – you just need some fat and some lye.’

‘Och aye, we’re good liars, we are,’ Rob put in proudly. ‘Famed for it, ye ken.’

Well, I tried, thought Tiffany. And anyway, their spirits are pure, if not particularly clean.

Down on the Chalk, at the edge of a dark forest on the top
of a hill overlooking Twoshirts, a small town with growing aspirations of being a bit more than one store, a coaching inn and a blacksmith’s shop, the Queen of the Elves smiled in satisfaction.

It was a warm night and the air smelled as it always did, and the sky looked as it always did. There appeared to be a new road or stream into the town which glimmered in the moonlight, but otherwise things
seemed just as they had been on her last visit.

She turned to look at her goblin prisoner, who was perched with his hands bound on the saddle behind one of her guards. She smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. She would hand him over to Lord Lankin, she thought. The elf would enjoy tearing the wretched goblin limb from limb – after he had had his pleasure playing with his prey, of course.

But first, this goblin filth had led them here – to this hillside. The Queen and her raiding party looked down at the sleeping valley ahead. Her warriors wore scraps of fur and leather, feathers tucked into headbands and dangling around their necks – and they carried bows with the arrows already nocked.

The gate between the worlds had given them very little trouble in the end. It had not taken
much effort for the stronger elves to push through – the barrier was, indeed, very weak just now. Before, the old witch would surely have kept it strong, kept them out. For she had been always on the watch for the fairy folk.

Animals noticed them too. At the very moment the Queen stepped onto the Chalk, the hares on the downs had turned and frozen, whilst the owls out hunting had soared higher,
sensing the unwelcome presence of another predator.

Humans, however, were usually the last to notice anything. Which made them so much more fun . . .

Apart from a glow above a mound on the hillside and a distant noise of roistering that the Queen recognized as being the usual sounds of the Nac Mac Feegle, there had been nothing so far to trouble the first elf incursion into the Discworld for
many years, and the elves had begun to enjoy themselves. They had caroused through a couple of villages, letting out cows, upturning carts, turning the milk in the churns sour, spoiling a cask of ale and generally amusing themselves with such trifles. But the growing little town below promised all sorts of entertainment for elves who had been denied the pleasures of a raid for far too long.