Tiffany Aching Complete Collection, page 75
And I can’t move. Not at all.
White all around me. And inside my head, all white.
Who am I?
I can remember the name Tiffany. I hope that was me.
White all around me. That happened before. It was a kind of dream or memory or something else I don’t have a word for. And all around me, whiteness falling. And building up around me, and lifting me up. It was . . . the chalk lands being built, silently, under ancient seas.
That’s what my name means.
It means Land Under Wave.
And, like a wave, color came flooding back into her mind. It was mostly the redness of rage.
How dare he!
To kill the lambs!
Granny Aching wouldn’t have allowed that. She never lost a lamb. She could bring them back to life.
I should never have left here in the first place, Tiffany thought. Perhaps I should have stayed and tried to learn things by myself. But if I hadn’t gone, would I still be me? Know what I know? Would I have been as strong as my grandmother, or would I just be a cackler? Well, I’ll be strong now.
When the killing weather was blind nature, you could only cuss; but if it was walking about on two legs . . . then it was war. And there would be a reckoning!
She tried to move, and now the whiteness gave way. It felt like hard snow, but it wasn’t cold to her touch; it fell away, leaving a hole.
A smooth, slightly transparent floor stretched away in front of her. There were big pillars rising up to a ceiling that was hidden by some sort of fog.
There were walls made of the same stuff as the floor. They looked like ice—she could even see little bubbles inside them—but were no more than cool when she touched them.
It was a very large room. There was no furniture of any sort. It was just the sort of room a king would build to say “Look, I can afford to waste all this space!”
Her footsteps echoed as she explored. No, not even a chair. And how comfortable would it be if she found one?
She did, eventually, find a staircase that went up (unless, of course, you started at the top). It led to another hall that at least had furniture. They were the sort of couches that rich ladies were supposed to lounge on, looking tired but beautiful. Oh, and there were urns, quite big urns, and statues, too, all in the same warm ice. The statues showed athletes and gods, very much like the pictures in Chaffinch’s Mythology, doing ancient things like hurling javelins or killing huge snakes with their bare hands. They didn’t have a stitch of clothing between them, but all the men wore fig leaves, which Tiffany, in a spirit of inquiry, found would not come off.
And there was a fire. The first strange thing about it was that the logs were also of the same ice. The other strange thing was that the flames were blue—and cold.
This level had tall pointed windows, but they began a long way from the floor and showed nothing but the sky, where the pale sun was a ghost among the clouds.
Another staircase, very grand this time, led up to yet another floor with more statues and couches and urns. Who could live in a place like this? Someone who didn’t need to eat or sleep, that’s who. Someone who didn’t need to be comfortable.
“Wintersmith!”
Her voice bounced from wall to wall, sending back “ITH . . . Ith . . . ith . . .” until it died away.
Another staircase, then, and this time there was something new. On a plinth, where there might have been a statue, was a crown. It floated in the air a few feet above the base, turning gently, and glittered with frost. A little bit farther on was another statue, smaller than most, but around this one, blue and green and gold lights danced and shimmered.
They looked just like the Hublights that could sometimes be seen in the depths of winter floating over the mountains at the center of the world. Some people thought they were alive.
The statue was the same height as Tiffany.
“Wintersmith!” There was still no reply. A nice palace with no kitchen, no bed. . . . He didn’t need to eat or sleep, so who was it for?
She knew the answer already: me.
She reached out to touch the dancing lights, and they swarmed up her arm and spread across her body, making a dress that glittered like moonlight on snowfields. She was shocked, then angry. Then she wished she had a mirror, felt guilty about that, and went back to being angry again, and resolved that if by chance she did find a mirror, the only reason she’d look in it would be to check how angry she was.
After searching for a while, she found a mirror, which was nothing more than a wall of ice of such a dark green that it was almost black.
She did look angry. And immensely, beautifully sparkly. There were little glints of gold on the blue and green, just like there were in the sky on wintry nights.
“Wintersmith!”
He must be watching her. He could be anywhere.
“All right! I’m here! You know that!”
“Yes. I do,” said the Wintersmith behind her.
Tiffany spun around and slapped him across the face, then slapped him again with her other hand.
It was like hitting rock. He was learning very quickly now.
“That’s for the lambs,” she said, trying to shake some life back into her fingers. “How dare you! You didn’t have to!”
He looked much more human. Either he was wearing real clothes or he had worked hard on making them look real. He’d actually managed to look . . . well, handsome. Not cold anymore, just . . . cool.
He’s nothing but a snowman, her Second Thoughts protested. Remember that. He’s just too smart to have coal for eyes or a carrot for a nose.
“Ouch,” said the Wintersmith, as if he’d just remembered to say it.
“I demand that you let me go!” Tiffany snapped. “Right now!” That’s right, her Second Thoughts said. You want him to end up cowering behind the saucepans on top of the kitchen dresser. As it were . . .
“At this moment,” said the Wintersmith very calmly, “I am a gale wrecking ships a thousand miles away. I am freezing water pipes in a snowbound town. I am freezing the sweat on a dying man, lost in a terrible blizzard. I creep silently under doors. I hang from gutters. I stroke the fur of the sleeping bear, deep in her cave, and course in the blood of the fishes under the ice.”
“I don’t care!” said Tiffany. “I don’t want to be here! And you shouldn’t be here either!”
“Child, will you walk with me?” said the Wintersmith. “I will not harm you. You are safe here.”
“What from?” said Tiffany, and then, because too much time around Miss Tick does something to your conversation, even in times of stress, she changed this to: “From what?”
“Death,” said the Wintersmith. “Here you will never die.”
At the back of the Feegles’ chalk pit, more chalk had been carved out of the wall to make a tunnel about five feet high and perhaps as long.
In front of it stood Roland de Chumsfanleigh (it wasn’t his fault). His ancestors had been knights, and they had come to own the Chalk by killing the kings who thought they did. Swords, that’s what it had all been about. Swords and cutting off heads. That was how you got land in the old days, and then the rules were changed so that you didn’t need a sword to own land anymore, you just needed the right piece of paper. But his ancestors had still hung on to their swords, just in case people thought that the whole thing with the bits of paper was unfair, it being a fact that you can’t please everybody.
He’d always wanted to be good with a sword, and it had come as a shock to find they were so heavy. He was great at air sword. In front of a mirror he could fence against his reflection and win nearly all the time. Real swords didn’t allow that. You tried to swing them and they ended up swinging you. He’d realized that maybe he was more cut out for bits of paper. Besides, he needed glasses, which could be a bit tricky under a helmet, especially if someone was hitting you with a sword.
He wore a helmet now, and held a sword that was—although he wouldn’t admit it—far too heavy for him. He was also wearing a suit of chain mail that made it very hard to walk. The Feegles had done their best to make it fit, but the crotch hung down to his knees and flapped amusingly when he moved.
I’m not a hero, he thought. I’ve got a sword, which I need two hands to lift, and I’ve got a shield that is also really heavy, and I’ve got a horse with curtains around it that I’ve had to leave at home (and my aunts will go mad when they go into the drawing room), but inside I’m a kid who would quite like to know where the privy is. . . .
But she rescued me from the Queen of the Elves. If she hadn’t, I’d still be a stupid kid instead of . . . um . . . a young man hoping he isn’t too stupid.
The Nac Mac Feegles had exploded back into his room, fighting their way through the storm that had arrived overnight, and now, they said, it was time for him to be a Hero for Tiffany. . . . Well, he would be. He was sure of that. Fairly sure. But right now the scenery wasn’t what he’d expected.
“You know, this doesn’t look like the entrance to the Underworld,” he said.
“Ach, any cave can be the way in,” said Rob Anybody, who was sitting on Roland’s helmet. “But ye must ha’ the knowin’ o’ the crawstep. Okay, Big Yan, ye go first. . . .”
Big Yan strutted up to the chalk hole. He stuck out his arms behind him, bent at the elbows. He leaned backward, sticking out one leg to keep his balance. Then he wiggled the foot in the air a few times, leaned forward, and vanished as soon as the foot touched the ground.
Rob Anybody banged on Roland’s helmet with his fist.
“Okay, big Hero,” he shouted. “Off ye go!”
There was no way out. Tiffany didn’t even know if there was a way in.
“If you were the Summer Lady, then we would dance,” said the Wintersmith. “But I know now that you are not her, even though you seem to be. But for the sake of you I am now human, and I must have company.”
Tiffany’s racing mind showed her pictures: the sprouting acorn, the fertile feet, the Cornucopia. I’m just enough of a goddess to fool a few floorboards and an acorn and a handful of seeds, she thought. I’m just like him. Iron enough to make a nail doesn’t make a snowman human, and a couple of oak leaves don’t make me a goddess.
“Come,” said the Wintersmith, “let me show you my world. Our world.”
When Roland opened his eyes, all he could see were shadows. Not shadows of things—just shadows, drifting like cobwebs.
“I was expecting somewhere . . . hotter,” he said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. Around him, Feegles popped out of nowhere.
“Ah, you’re thinkin’ o’ hells,” said Rob Anybody. “They tends to be on the toasty side, it’s true. Underworlds are more o’ the gloomy sort. It’s where folks end up when they’s lost, ye ken.”
“What? You mean if it’s a dark night and you take the wrong turning—”
“Ach, no! Like mebbe deid when they shouldn’t be an’ there’s nae place for ’em tae go, or they fall doon a gap in the worlds an’ dinna ken the way. Some o’ them don’t even ken where they are, poor souls. There’s an awful lot o’ that kind o’ thing. There’s no’ a lot o’ laughs in a underworld. This one used tae be called Limbo, ye ken, ’cuz the door was verra low. Looks like it’s gone way downhill since we wuz last here.” He raised his voice. “An’ a big hand, lads, for young Wee Dangerous Spike, oot wi’ us for the first time!” There was a ragged cheer, and Wee Dangerous Spike waved his sword.
Roland pushed his way through the shadows, which actually offered some resistance. The very air was gray down here. Sometimes he heard groans, or someone coughing in the distance . . . and then there were footsteps, shuffling toward him.
He drew his sword and peered through the gloom.
Shadows parted and a very old woman in tattered, threadbare clothes shuffled past, dragging a large cardboard box behind her. It bounced awkwardly as she tugged at it. She didn’t even glance at Roland.
He lowered the sword.
“I thought there’d be monsters,” he said as the old woman disappeared into the gloom.
“Aye,” said Rob Anybody grimly. “There are. Think o’ somethin’ solid, will ye?”
“Something solid?!”
“I’m nae jokin’! Think o’ a nice big mountain, or a hammer! Whatever ye do, dinna wish or regret or hope!”
Roland closed his eyes and then reached up to touch them.
“I can still see! But my eyes are shut!”
“Aye! And ye’ll see more wi’ yer een shut. Look aroond ye, if ye dare!”
Roland, his eyes shut, took a few steps forward and looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed. Perhaps things were slightly more gloomy. And then he saw it—a flash of bright orange, a line in the dark that came and went.
“What was that?” he asked.
“We dinna ken whut they call themselves. We call ’em bogles,” said Rob.
“They are flashes of light?”
“Ach, that one was a long way away,” said Rob. “If ye want tae see one close up, it’s standin’ right beside ye. . . .”
Roland spun around.
“Ah, ye see, ye made a classic mistake right there,” said Rob, conversationally. “Ye opened yer eyes!”
Roland shut his eyes. The bogle was standing six inches away from him.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream. Hundreds of Feegles were watching him, he knew.
At first he thought: It’s a skeleton. When it flashed again, it looked like a bird, a tall bird like a heron. Then it was a stick figure, like a kid would draw. Over and over again it scribbled itself against the darkness in thin, burning lines.
It scribbled itself a mouth and leaned forward for a moment, showing hundreds of needle teeth. Then it vanished.
There was a murmur from the Feegles.
“Aye, ye done weel,” said Rob Anybody. “Ye stared it in the mouth and ye didna take so much as a step back.”
“Mr. Anybody, I was too scared to run,” Roland muttered.
Rob Anybody leaned down until he was level with the boy’s ear.
“Aye,” he whispered, “I ken that well enough! There be a lot o’ men who became heroes ’cuz they wuz too scared tae run! But ye didna yell nor cack yer kecks, an’ that’s good. There’ll be more o’ them as we go on. Dinna let them intae yer heid! Keep ’em oot!”
“Why, what do they—? No, don’t tell me!” said Roland.
He walked on through the shadows, blinking so he wouldn’t miss anything. The old woman had gone, but the gloom began to fill up with people. Mostly they stood by themselves, or sat on chairs. Some wandered around quietly. They passed a man in ancient clothing who was staring at his own hand as though he were seeing it for the first time.
There was a woman swaying gently and singing a nonsense song in a quiet, little-girl voice. She gave Roland a strange, mad smile as he walked past. Right behind her stood a bogle.
“All right,” said Roland grimly. “Now tell me what they do.”
“They eat yer memories,” said Rob Anybody. “Yer thoughts is real tae them. Wishes an’ hope are like food! They’re vermin, really. This is whut happens when these places are no’ looked after.”
“And how can I kill them?”
“Oh, that was a verra nasty voice ye just used. Hark at the big wee hero! Dinna bother aboot them, laddie. They won’t attack ye yet, and we’ve got a job tae do.”
“I hate this place!”
“Aye, hells is a lot more lively,” said Rob Anybody. “Slow doon now—we’re at the river.”
A river ran through the Underworld. It was as dark as the soil, and lapped at its banks in a slow, oily way.
“Ah, I think I’ve heard of this,” said Roland. “There’s a ferryman, right?”
YES.
He was there, suddenly, standing in a long, low boat. He was all in black, of course in black, with a deep hood that entirely concealed his face and gave a definite feeling that this was just as well.
“Hi, pal,” said Rob Anybody cheerfully. “How’re ye doin’?”
OH NO, NOT YOU PEOPLE AGAIN, said the dark figure in a voice that was not so much heard as felt. I THOUGHT YOU WERE BANNED.
“Just a wee misunderstandin’, ye ken,” said Rob, sliding down Roland’s armor. “Ye have tae let us in, ’cuz we’s deid already.”
The figure extended an arm. The black robe fell away, and what pointed at Roland looked, to him, very much like a bony finger.
BUT HE MUST PAY THE FERRYMAN, he said accusingly, in a voice of crypts and graveyards.
“Not until I’m on the other side,” Roland said firmly.
“Oh, c’mon!” said Daft Wullie to the ferryman. “Ye can see he’s a Hero! If ye canna trust a Hero, who can ye trust?”
The cowl regarded Roland for what seemed like a hundred years.
OH, VERY WELL THEN.
The Feegles swarmed aboard the rotting boat with their usual enthusiasm and cries of “Crivens!” and “Where’s the booze on this cruise?” and “We’re right oot in the Styx noo!” and Roland climbed in with care, watching the ferryman suspiciously.
The figure pulled on the big oar, and they set off with a creak and then, regrettably, and to the ferryman’s disgust, to the sound of singing. More or less singing, that is, at every possible speed and tempo and with no regard at all for the tune:
“Row row yer row boat boat boaty boat down boat stream boat merrily stream like a bird on the boa—”
WILL YOU SHUT UP?
“—bonny boat row stream stream boat boat row yer boat down the merrily stream row merrily merrily boat—”
THIS IS HARDLY APPROPRIATE!
“Down the boat boat down the merrily stream stream stream merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily boat!”
“Mr. Anybody?” said Roland as they glided jerkily along.
“Aye?”
“Why am I sitting next to a blue cheese with a bit of tartan wrapped around it?”
“Ah, that’d be Horace,” said Rob Anybody. “He’s Daft Wullie’s pal. He’s no’ bein’ a nuisance, is he?”
“No. But he’s trying to sing!”
