Tiffany Aching Complete Collection, page 124
Mrs. Proust—a witch who had no need to add nasty witch accessories to her everyday look, given that she had been naturally blessed with the right kind of hooked nose, messy hair, and blackened teeth—heard the novelty graveyard groan of the door opening and came over to greet them.
Tiffany laughed. “That’s a new one,” she said.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Proust. “Can’t keep them on the shelves. Nice to see you, Mistress Aching, and who’s this young man, may I ask?”
“This is Geoffrey, Mrs. Proust, and we’re in the city to fit him up for a witch’s broomstick.”
“Are you indeed? A boy? A witch? On a broomstick?”
“Well,” said Tiffany, “the Archchancellor uses a broomstick sometimes.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Proust, “but there might be trouble.”
“Well, if there is,” said Tiffany, “the trouble will come to me. I am the chosen successor to Granny Weatherwax, and I think it could be time for a few little changes.”
“Well done,” said Mrs. Proust. “That’s the spirit!” She looked at Geoffrey, who was engrossed with the display of naughty doggy-dos. And then and there she loomed close to him, put a clawed hand on his shoulder, and said to him, “So you want to be a witch, do you?”
Geoffrey stood his ground well, and Tiffany was impressed. So was Mrs. Proust.
“Well, mistress,” he said, “I think I can help witches anyway.”
“Do you?” said Mrs. Proust with a glint in her eye. “We shall see, young man, won’t we?” She turned back to Tiffany. “I am sure there will be some witches who will hate the idea,” she said, “but it is your way, Tiffany, your time. And Esme Weatherwax was no fool. She could see the future coming.”
“We’re staying in Ankh-Morpork until the dwarfs have finished with Geoffrey’s stick,” Tiffany said. “Can we stop here? We might need to stay overnight.”
Mrs. Proust grinned. “Well, there is plenty of space in my spare room, and it would be good to have a chin-wag while you are here.” She looked at Geoffrey. “Have you been to the city before, young man?”
“No, Mrs. Proust,” he replied quietly. “We lived in the Shires, and my father was the only one to travel.”
“Well then, my son Derek will show you around,” Mrs. Proust said, sounding satisfied. She followed this up with a shout for the lad, and Derek—the sort of lad you wouldn’t notice in a crowd of two, meaning that he shared very little in common with his mother’s looks—came stumbling up the stairs from the workshop below.
Ankh-Morpork, Tiffany thought, would definitely be an education.
As the two lads left, Mrs. Proust said, “So how are things going with your young man then, Tiffany?”
Tiffany sighed. Why were elderly witches so nosy? But then she thought: Actually, all witches are nosy. It’s part of what being a witch is. And she relaxed. At least Mrs. Proust wasn’t trying to push Derek at her again.
“Well,” she said, “I do like Preston and he likes me—he’s my best friend—but I’m not sure either of us are ready for, well . . . anything more. You see, he does a lot of wonderful work at the hospital and we write to each other and even meet up sometimes.” She paused. “I think we are married to our jobs.” She swallowed, a lump suddenly appearing in her throat. “It’s not that we don’t want to be together . . . I mean, I . . . but . . .” The words trailed off and Tiffany just looked totally miserable now.
Mrs. Proust did her best to look sympathetic. “You’re not the first witch to have that problem, my dear,” she said. “Nor will you be the last.”
Tiffany could feel the tears beginning. She said, “But why do I feel like this? I know a part of me does want to be with Preston—and it would make my family so happy!—but I also want to be a witch. And I’m good at it—I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I measure myself against the other witches and I know I’m better than most of them when it comes to witchcraft. I can’t not do it.” A tear threatened to trickle down her cheek. “Just like Preston can’t not be a doctor,” she finished sadly.
“Oh, I understand all that,” Mrs. Proust said. “But this is today. It’s soon going to be tomorrow and things can change. Things are changing, especially for you young people, when you both want to do different things. Just do the work you find in front of you and enjoy yourself. After all, you are both still young, so you still have options for the future. Just like my Derek.”
“But that’s the difficulty,” said Tiffany. “I don’t really want options. I know what I want to do. I enjoy my work, I really do.” This last word came out as a squeal. “I just wish Preston could be with me,” she added quietly. “Not here in the city.”
“But you tell me he is training to be a doctor,” said Mrs. Proust. “And he loves his work. You wouldn’t want him to give that up for you, now would you? So don’t worry so much. Think yourself lucky and don’t run ahead of the world. There is a saying, don’t push the river. Although, of course, in Ankh-Morpork you can push very hard,” she added with a cackle.* More encouragingly, she continued, “Maybe in a year or two your young man can be a doctor in the same place where you are a witch. I had my Mr. Proust. You can have your Preston. Just not yet.”
“When I go around the houses,” Tiffany said quietly, “I also see how some of the marriages, well, they’re not really . . .” That hung in the air.
“There are happy marriages,” Mrs. Proust said. “Think of your parents, maybe? Isn’t that a happy marriage? Now, let your Auntie Eunice give you some help. Go and see your boy and have a chat with him.” She paused and added shrewdly, “He’s not interested in anyone else, is he?”
“Oh no,” said Tiffany. “He’s working with the Igors* and he said that he didn’t fancy the Igor girls because he likes a girl who stays the same shape every day. The Igorinas like to experiment.”
Geoffrey came back late with Derek, singing a song worthy of Nanny Ogg, but Tiffany got a good night’s sleep—a rare treat!—and then a breakfast of ham and eggs courtesy of Mrs. Proust. While Geoffrey and Derek still slept, Tiffany decided to go and visit Preston. Mrs. Proust’s words had got her thinking.
She headed for the Lady Sybil Free Hospital over in Goose Gate, but paused at the door, strangely uncertain. She hadn’t told Preston she would be in the city. Would her visit be a good one, or . . . ?
It was a free hospital, so there was a queue of people waiting, all hoping for the happy result of seeing a doctor before old Boney turned up with his scythe. It looked like nobody would be moving for some time, so Tiffany did something she knew she shouldn’t.
She stepped outside her body, leaving it standing demurely by the gates. It was an easy trick for a witch, but still dangerous, and she had no real reason to take the risk. Except . . . the Igor girls? They were beautiful . . . once you looked past the discreet stitches, anyway.
She slid silently through the crowd, doing her best to ignore her First Thoughts, Second Thoughts, and even her Third Thoughts, and drifted into the hospital itself, floating along the corridors until she found Preston.
He was in his element, his gaze focused on a patient with a rather unsettling hole in the stomach—and when Preston looked at anything, it knew it was being looked at and was liable to stand up and salute. This was especially true of some of the spare parts the Igors used—a most unsettling experience—and Preston was indeed surrounded by Igors. And yes, that included girls. But, happy sight, he was paying them no attention.
Tiffany sighed with relief, and then—allowing herself to listen to her Second Thoughts, which were telling her off in a style uncomfortably like the voice of Granny Weatherwax—whisked herself back into her body, which wobbled slightly as she took control again.
The queue had moved a few inches. But the pointy hat took her to its head and the porter let her through immediately. She waved away his offer of directions and marched confidently off down the corridor, leaving the porter to mutter, “I didn’t even need to tell her where he was. That’s a proper witch, that is.” For at the hospital it was all too easy to set off confidently for one place but find yourself in the basement—which these days was home to goblins, who maintained the huge boilers and had set up a workshop manufacturing the very finest surgical instruments. Still, most people eventually made it out of the hospital and the record seemed to be improving.
Preston was very glad to see Tiffany, saying, “I heard about Granny Weatherwax. Well done for being the top witch, it couldn’t happen to a better person; are you allowed to tell all the other witches what to do now?”
“What!” Tiffany laughed. “It’s like herding goblins. No! Goblins are easier. Anyway, it works like this: I don’t tell them what to do, and they allow me to work hard—just as I like it.”
“Just like me and the Igors,” said Preston. “But I’ve got good news too. Doctor Lawn is getting on now and he has promoted me to be a surgeon; usually only Igors can be surgeons, so that’s a real feather in my hat.”
Tiffany kissed him, and said, “That is good news; I am so proud of you! But I do wish he would give you more time off—and you could come and see me. Letters can only say so much. . . .” Her voice faltered. “Though I do so love the way you write.”
“And I like your letters too,” Preston said, “and I wish I could visit home more. But I do enjoy the work here, Tiffany. And people need me. Every day. I’ve got a talent and it would be criminal not to use it.”
“Yes, I know,” said Tiffany. “That’s the story of my life as well. Our skills, you will find, could be our jailers.” And it struck her that just as Preston was looking into people in one way—he knew the names of all the bones now, and could even say hello to a few of them—she was learning to look into people another way; into their heads, their minds. “But I couldn’t do anything else,” she finished, a touch wistfully.
Preston said, “No. Me neither.”
Then the time for talking was over, and it was just Tiffany and Preston, together, snatching the moment and saying more with their eyes than any words could convey.
And it was magic; a different kind of magic.
Mrs. Proust went with them to pick up Geoffrey’s broomstick—Granny Weatherwax’s stick had been a legend, and she was curious to see if the dwarfs had managed to make it work.
Dave greeted them and said, “Well, here it is. It’s a good stick, it really is. I reckon Mistress Weatherwax never took any care of it at all, no matter what we dwarfs did to fix it up.”
“All she did was curse it,” Shrucker put in a bit sourly. It was clear that, to him, a broomstick was almost like a living creature.
The stick gleamed. It shone. It looked almost alive, and the bristles were sleek. It was almost Granny Weatherwax’s old stick, if you discounted the new shell for the staff and new bristles.* Tiffany and Geoffrey stared at it in amazement while the two dwarfs looked on, smiling.
“It’s the best we ever made—I mean, mended,” Shrucker added. “But please, use it gently and keep it oiled. Nothing but the best for Mistress Aching.” He straightened up proudly, a dwarf who could stand tall to his full four feet once again.
Mrs. Proust ran her fingers against the stick and nodded. “This is an excellent stick,” she said. “Look, it’s even got a little cup to hold your drink.”
Shrucker gave her a funny look. “And special today, for our good customers,” he said instead, “those who don’t bring . . . trouble”—with a sideways glance at Tiffany—“we have a bonus little gift.” He proudly presented Geoffrey with two furry white cubes covered in assorted spots. “You can tie them on the strap,” he said. “Very popular with the lads for their carriages, these. Some lads also keep birds in a little cage to sing as they go along. They call it in-carriage entertainment.”
Geoffrey shuddered at the thought. A bird, in a cage? His heart felt sorrow for them. But the broomstick, well, he could barely wait to have a go on it.
Dave sniffed and said, “There you go, young man. So, do you want to give it a test drive then?” He handed him the stick and said, “Go on. Go to the end of the arches and give it a whirl.”
Tiffany was about to speak, but already Geoffrey was sparkling with excitement. She looked at his glowing eyes and said, “Well, all right, Geoffrey. You’ve been on my stick with me, and watched the broomsticks going past overhead. Go up slowly, just a bit at a time.”
She might as well have talked to the wall. Geoffrey straddled his broomstick, ran past the neighboring arch, jumped—and went skyward very fast. A series of nightmares flashed through Tiffany’s mind. There was a distant boom! Then a little dot in the sky got bigger, and there was Geoffrey, coming back down, grinning from ear to ear.
Tiffany almost squealed. “Look, Mrs. Proust. He’s picked it up already. It took me ages to learn how to fly.”
“But of course,” said Mrs. Proust. “That’s this here technology.”
And Shrucker said, “Wow! He’s a natural. Not even the goblins can do that.” For Geoffrey had just looped the loop, then got off his stick, leaving it hovering a few feet above the cobbles.
“How did you do that?” asked Tiffany, genuinely impressed.
“I don’t know,” said Geoffrey. “Just a knack, I suppose.”
And Tiffany thought: When Geoffrey’s not anxious, he radiates calmness, which probably means he sees more things and finds more things than other people do. It makes him open to new things too. Yes, it’s a knack all right.
Waving a good-bye to the dwarfs and Mrs. Proust, Tiffany and Geoffrey took off together and floated back toward Lancre and the distant mountains, Geoffrey getting the feel of his stick immediately and disappearing into the sky ahead of Tiffany.
She caught him up just outside the outskirts of Ankh-Morpork—he was soaring and swooping at a ferocious speed. “You do know your trousers are smoldering, don’t you?” she said with a laugh.
Geoffrey patted the smoke away with a sudden anxiety that made the stick wobble, saying, “Please don’t tell Nanny about this when we get back! She’ll laugh at me!”
But after they had traveled back to Lancre—quite a bit faster than on the outward journey—and before she set off back to the Chalk, Tiffany did of course tell Nanny Ogg. And the older witch did indeed laugh.
“It was amazing, though,” Tiffany said. “Flying seemed so natural to him.”
“Ha!” said Nanny. “Every man has a broomstick in the house, but they just don’t often know how to use ’em!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
An Elf among the Feegles
There was thunder and there was lightning. It was raining and there was water everywhere, running down the chalk hills.
The Queen screamed as she was thrown out of Fairyland, her wings torn from her body, her blood staining her shoulders. A scream with a life of its own, which ended in a dew pond on the Chalk, surprising a stoat on the prowl.
And Tiffany Aching woke up.
Her heart was thumping, a sudden chill making her shiver in the dark of the night. She looked over at the window. What had made her wake? Where was she needed?
She sat up and reached wearily for her clothes. . . .
Up on the downs, the Feegle mound was still its usual hive of activity and song, a Feegle mound being very like a beehive but without the honey, and to be sure a Feegle could sting much worse than a bee. But when something was being celebrated—and they didn’t need much to pick a reason for a celebration—the Nac Mac Feegles always made sure that it went on happily for a long time.
A short time past midnight, however, the revels that night were interrupted by Big Yan, the Feegle night watchman, as he ran in from the storm raging outside.*
He kicked the helmet of his chief, the Big Man of the clan, and shouted, “There’s elves here! I can smell it, ye ken!”
And from every hole in turn, the clan of the Nac Mac Feegle poured out in their hundreds to deal with the ancient enemy, waving claymores and swords, yodeling their war cries:
“Ach, stickit yer trakkans!”
“Nac Mac Feegle wha hae!”
“Gae awa’ wi’ ye, yer bogle!”
“Gi’e you sich a guid kickin’!”
“Nae king! Nae quin! We will nae be fooled agin!”
There is a concept known as a hustle and bustle, and the Feegles were very good at it, cheerfully getting in one another’s way in the drive to be the first into battle, and it seemed as if each small warrior had a battle cry of his own—and he was very ready to fight anyone who tried to take it away from him.
“How many elves?” asked Rob Anybody, trying to adjust his spog.
There was a pause.
“One,” said Big Yan sheepishly.
“Are ye sure?” said Rob Anybody, as his sons and brothers flowed around him and hurried past to the mouth of the mound. Ach, the embarrassment. The whole Feegle colony bristling with weaponry, full of alcohol and bravado and apparently nothing to do with it. Of course, they were always itching for a fight, but most Feegles itched all the time, especially in the spog.
They rushed about on the sodden hilltop looking for the enemy, while Big Yan led Rob to the dew pond on the top of the hill. The storm had passed and the water gleamed under the stars. There, half in, half out of the pond, the battered body of an elf lay groaning.
And indeed it was, apparently, a solitary elf. You could almost hear the Feegles thinking: One elf? Feegles loved a spat with the elves, but . . . just one? How did that happen?
“Ach crivens, it’s a long time since we had a reely good fight.” Rob sighed, and for a moment he was, for a Feegle, quite somber.
“Aye, but where there’s the one, there’s sure to be a plague o’ them,” Big Yan muttered.
Rob sniffed at the air. The elf just lay there and it was doing nothing. “There are nae ither elves aboot. We’d smell them if they were,” he pronounced. He reached a decision. “Big Yan, ye and Wee Dangerous Spike grab ahold of that scunner. Ye know what to dae if it gets feisty. Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin”—he looked for the clan gonnagle, who was the least likely to mangle the facts—“hie ye awa’ tae the kelda and tell her what’s abroad. What we are bringin’ back to the mound.” Then he shouted so that the rest of the clan could hear him, “This elf is oor prisoner. A hostage, ye ken. That means ye are nae tae kill it until ye are told.” He ignored the grumbles from the clan. “As tae the rest o’ ye, tak guard around yon stones. And if they come in force, show them what the Feegles can dae!”
