The Shepherd's Crown

‘You are clever, Tiffany Aching, the little girl I almost killed on the hill when the thunder and lightning became solid and hurtful, all teeth and bite.’ Nightshade was puzzled. ‘What am I now but a ragged pauper? Friendless, but you, one girl, you took me in when you had no reason to.’

 

 

‘I did have a reason,’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m a witch, and I thought it possible.’ She sat down on a milk churn, and said, ‘You must understand that elves are seen as vindictive, callous, spiteful, untrustworthy, self-centred, undeserving, unwelcome nuisances – and that’s being nice. I’ve heard much worse language used about them, especially from people whose children have been taken away, I can tell you. But nothing stays the same – our world, our iron, your court, your glamour. Did you know, Nightshade, that in Ankh-Morpork goblins have jobs, and are considered to be useful members of the community?’

 

‘What?’ said the Queen. ‘Goblins? But you humans hate goblins – and their stink! I thought the one we captured was lying!’

 

‘Well, maybe they do stink a bit, but so do their masters, because for some of them a stink is money,’ said Tiffany, ‘and a goblin who can repair a locomotive can stink as much as he likes. What do you elves have to offer us? You are just . . . folklore now. You’ve missed the train, in fact, and you have only mischief left, and silly tricks.’

 

‘I could kill you with a thought,’ said Nightshade with a sly look.

 

‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany, holding up a hand to halt the Feegles, each of whom wanted to be the one to get the first fist in. ‘I hope you don’t do so. It would be your last.’ She looked at the elf, whose sharp little face was quivering with upset as she found herself surrounded by those she did not understand. ‘Oh, please don’t cry. An elf who has been a queen – an elf who wants to be a queen again – surely shouldn’t cry.’

 

‘A queen shouldn’t, but I am a remnant of a queen, lost in the wilderness.’

 

‘No, you are in a hay barn. Do you understand the meaning of manual labour, lady?’

 

Nightshade looked puzzled. ‘No. What does it mean?’

 

‘It means earning a living by working. How are you with a shovel?’

 

‘I don’t know. What is a shovel?’

 

‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany again. ‘Look, you can stay here until you are better, but you must work hard at something. You could try.’

 

A boot bounced off the ground beside her, one of her father’s, a hole at the toe, and another trying out of sympathy to join in at the heel. ‘I cannae abide boots on my feet, ye ken,’ said Wee Mad Arthur, ‘but if ye recall I wuz raised by shoemakers, and they tol’ me a tale o’ the elves. Yon scunner ye ha’ there might ha’ a talent for it, ye ken.’

 

Nightshade turned the boot gingerly over in her hands. ‘What is this?’ she said.

 

‘A boot,’ said Tiffany.

 

‘An’ ye’ll get one reet noo up yer backside if I ha’ anythin’ tae dae wi’ it,’ Big Yan growled.

 

Tiffany took the boot from the elf and put it down. ‘We’ll talk later, Nightshade,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your suggestion, Wee Mad Arthur, and yes, I do know the storyfn1 but I think it is just that, a story.’

 

‘Weel, I tol’ ye, Wee Mad Arthur, you shouldnae have listened to that load o’ old cobblers,’ said Rob.

 

It was a day of old sheets and old boots and ‘make do and mend’. And oh dear, Tiffany thought, she had to check on baby Tiffany, and drop in on Becky Pardon and Nancy Upright – Miss Tick felt that both girls might be of use if she wanted to take on a trainee in the Chalk. But she couldn’t ask the girls to move in while she had Nightshade at the farm, not unless she gave them each a horseshoe necklace so they would be protected by the iron. It would have to wait . . .

 

She was back and forth to the farm all day, in between visits. Her last call of the afternoon was to Mr Holland the miller. There were only a few purple blotches on his skin now, and she left Mistress Holland with a second pot of the Merryday Root lotion, biting her tongue at the good lady’s clear message of ‘If only you had been here, I wouldn’t have used the wrong herb.’

 

When she got back, she found Nightshade perched in the corner of the barn, her merciless eyes pinned on You, who had stalked in and was arching her back and hissing at the elf. The Feegles were egging You on, with cries of ‘Ach, see you, *cat, gi’ the scunner a wee giftie for the Nac Mac Feegle’, interrupted by a sudden, ‘Crivens, lads, the big wee hag is back!’

 

Tiffany stood in the doorway tapping her foot, and Rob shrank back.

 

‘Ach no,’ he wailed. ‘Nae the Tappin’ of the Feets, mistress.’

 

Tiffany folded her arms.

 

‘Ach, mistress, ’tis a heavy thing to be under a geas,’ Rob moaned.

 

And Tiffany laughed.

 

But Nightshade had questions for her. She had seen people coming to the farm during the day, coming for medicines, for advice, for an ear to listen and, sadly, sometimes for an eye to see the bruises.

 

‘Why do you help these strangers?’ she asked Tiffany now. ‘They are not of your clan. You owe them nothing.’