The journey ended in a pile of logs. And the depot had many men, big strong men with metal in their hands, angry at the damage to the timber, and as they gathered to march up the mountain, there were laughs and shrieks from above – and then silence. The elves had gone.
The miller of Stankfn1 was a pious man, and the mill itself was complicated, with wheels turning all the time in various directions; his nightmare, which he hoped never to see, would be a day when the mill broke down and all those complicated wheels spun off everywhere. But while they kept on turning, well, the miller was a happy man, for after all everybody needed bread.
Then one night the elves came, and oh, they started to interfere with his flour, making holes in the sacks and dropping an anthill into the grain, laughing at him.
But they had made a big mistake.
The miller prayed to Om, but as he got no answer – or, rather, he got the answer in his head that he wanted Om to give him – he let the elves have it, and as the complicated wheels roared into action, they were surrounded by metal – wonderful metal, cold metal, all turning like clockwork.
And the miller locked all the doors so they couldn’t get out. He could hear the screams all night, and when his friends then asked him how he could have done that, he just said, ‘Well, the mills of Stank grind slow, yet they grind ’em exceeding small.’
Down in the village of Slippery Hollow, Old Mother Griggs woke up with her hair in a terrible tangle – and a bed full of thistles, tearing into her aged skin . . . while an elf laughed in glee as its mount – a young heifer – collapsed to her knees, exhausted from the night-time revels . . .
And an old, crabbed trader in Slice pushed his cart – his only means of survival – into the market square, singing, ‘A cabbage a day keeps the goblins away. And an onion a day makes the elv— Aargh!’
And at the foot of the Ramtops, a young maiden by the name of Elsie was tickled under the chin by a flower, and suddenly loosed the hand of her little sister, letting the little girl wander into the river, while Elsie gazed lovingly into the eyes of her father’s donkey . . . as an unwary traveller skipped deeper and deeper into the woods, dancing to elven music that would never stop, the elves gambolling along beside him, laughing at his distress . . .
And Herne the Hunted – god of the small and furry, those destined to be eaten – crawled under a bush and hid as three elves discovered the gory fun they could have with a family of young rabbits . . .
fn1 You might think that a name like Stank would put people off. But in fact the mountain village of Stank had once been a very popular place for tourists. They liked to send messages home saying, ‘We’re stinking in Stank.’ And go home with presents for their loved ones like tunics with ‘I’ve been to Stank and all I’ve brought home is this stinking tunic’ written on them. Alas for them, with the coming of the railways – or in the case of Stank, the not coming of the railways – tourists began to go elsewhere, and Stank was now gradually disappearing into the mud, surviving mostly by taking in washing.
CHAPTER 14
A Tale of Two Queens
TIFFANY TOOK NIGHTSHADE – a very small, pathetic creature right now – back to her father’s farm with her, tucking her under her cloak for the journey, and then settling her and the Feegles into one of the old-fashioned hay barns.
‘It’s clean and warm here,’ she said, ‘with no metal. And I will bring you some food.’ She looked sternly at the Feegles. They had a hungry look to them. There was an elf, all by itself. What could they do with it? ‘Rob, Wee Mad Arthur, Big Yan,’ she said, ‘I’m just going to get a lotion for Nightshade, to help heal her wounds, and I do not want you to touch her while I am gone. Is that clear?’
‘Oh aye, mistress,’ said Rob cheerfully. ‘Get yeself offski and leave yon scunner wi’ us.’ He glared at Nightshade. ‘If yon elf gi’ us any trouble, ye ken, we have oor weapons.’ He shook his claymore in a fashion that clearly showed that he was itching to take it out to play.
Tiffany turned back to Nightshade. ‘I am the hag o’ the hills,’ she said, ‘and these Feegles will do my bidding. But they do not like you and your kind, so I suggest you mend your manners, madam, and play the game. Or there will be a reckoning.’
And then, indeed, she was offski. But it was a very rapid offski, as she trusted the elf very little and the Feegles even less.
When Tiffany got back, Nightshade took the healing ointment, and it seemed as if with each smooth stroke the little elf blossomed, becoming more and more beautiful. There was a sparkle about her and it was like a syrup that covered everything. It shouted, ‘Am I not beautiful? Am I not clever? I am the Queen of Queens!’
Then it seemed to Tiffany that her sense of self was being changed; but she had been waiting for it, and she thought, I’m not having that, my friend. She said, ‘You will not try your elvish wiles on me, madam!’