The Wee Free Men (25 page)

“And we have to hurry,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “There’s a
man riding up here on a farm horse. Fair hair, red face—”

“It sounds like my father!”

“Well, he’s making the poor thing gallop,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “Quick, now. You want to learn the skills? When can you leave home?”

“Pardon?” said Tiffany.

“Don’t the girls here go off to work as maids and things?” said Mrs. Ogg.

“Oh, yes. When they’re a bit older than me.”

“Well, when you’re a bit older than you, Miss Tick here will come and find you,” said Mistress Weatherwax. Miss Tick nodded. “There’re elderly witches up in the mountains who’ll pass on what they know in exchange for a bit of help around the cottage. This place will be watched over while you’re gone, you may depend on it. In the meantime you’ll get three meals a day, your own bed, use of broomstick…that’s the way we do it. All right?”

“Yes,” said Tiffany, grinning happily. The wonderful moment was passing too quickly for all the questions she wanted to ask. “Yes! But, er…”

“Yes?” said Mrs. Ogg.

“I don’t have to dance around with no clothes on or anything like that, do I? Only I heard rumors—”

Mistress Weatherwax rolled her eyes.

Mrs. Ogg grinned cheerfully. “Well, that procedure does have something to recommend it—” she began.

“No, you don’t have to!” snapped Mistress Weatherwax. “No cottage made of sweets, no cackling, and no dancing!”

“Unless you want to,” said Mrs. Ogg, standing up. “There’s no harm in an occasional cackle, if the mood takes you that way. I’d teach you a good one right now, but we really ought to be going.”

“But…but how did you manage it?” said Miss Tick to Tiffany. “This is all chalk! You’ve become a witch on chalk? How?”

“That’s all
you
know, Perspicacia Tick,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “The
bones
of the hills is flint. It’s hard and sharp and useful. King of stones.” She picked up her broomstick and turned back to Tiffany. “Will you get into trouble, do you think?” she said.

“I might,” said Tiffany.

“Do you want any help?”

“If it’s my trouble, I’ll get out of it,” said Tiffany. She wanted to say: Yes, yes! I’m going to need help! I don’t know what’s going to happen when my father gets here! The Baron’s probably gotten really angry! But I don’t want them to think I can’t deal with my own problems. I ought to be able to cope.

“That’s right,” said Mistress Weatherwax.

Tiffany wondered if the witch could read minds.

“Minds? No,” said Mistress Weatherwax, climbing onto her broomstick. “Faces, yes. Come here, young lady.”

Tiffany obeyed.

“The thing about witchcraft,” said Mistress Weatherwax, “is that it’s not like school at all.
First
you get the test, and then afterward you spend years findin’ out how you passed it. It’s a bit like life in that respect.” She reached out and gently raised Tiffany’s chin so that she could look into her face.

“I see you opened your eyes,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Good. Many people never do. Times ahead might be a little tricky, even so. You’ll need this.”

She stretched out a hand and made a circle in the air around Tiffany’s head, then brought her hand up over the head while making little movements with her forefinger.

Tiffany raised her hands to her head. For a moment she thought there was nothing there, and then they touched…something. It was more like a sensation in the air; if you weren’t expecting it to be there, your fingers passed straight through.

“Is it
really
there?” she said.

“Who knows?” said the witch. “It’s
virtually
a pointy hat. No one else will know it’s there. It might be a comfort.”

“You mean it just exists in my head?” said Tiffany.

“You’ve got lots of things in your head. That doesn’t mean they aren’t real. Best not to ask me too many questions.”

“What happened to the toad?” said Miss Tick, who
did
ask questions.

“He’s gone off with the Wee Free Men,” said Tiffany. “It turned out he used to be a lawyer.”

“You’ve given a clan of the Nac Mac Feegle their own lawyer?” said Mrs. Ogg. “That’ll make the world tremble. Still, I always say the occasional tremble does you good.”

“Come, sisters, we must away,” said Miss Tick, who had climbed on the other broomstick behind Mrs. Ogg.

“There’s no need for that sort of talk,” said Mrs. Ogg. “That’s theater talk, that is. Cheerio, Tiff. We’ll see you again.”

Her stick rose gently into the air. From the stick of Mistress Weatherwax, though, there was merely a sad little noise, like the
thwop
of Miss Tick’s hat point. The broomstick went
kshugagugah
.

Mistress Weatherwax sighed. “It’s them dwarfs,” she said. “They
say
they’ve repaired it, oh yes, and it starts first time in their workshop—”

They heard the sound of distant hooves. With surprising speed, Mistress Weatherwax swung herself off the stick, grabbed it firmly in both hands, and ran away across the turf, skirts billowing behind her.

She was a speck in the distance when Tiffany’s father came over the brow of the hill on one of the farm horses. He hadn’t even stopped to put the leather shoes on it; great slices of earth flew up as hooves the size of large soup plates,
*
each one shod with iron, bit into the turf.

Tiffany heard a faint
kshugagugahvvvvvoooom
behind her as he leaped off the horse.

She was surprised to see him laughing and crying at the same time.

It was all a bit of a dream.

Tiffany found that a very useful thing to say. It’s hard to remember, it was all a bit of a dream. It was all a bit of a dream, I can’t be certain.

The overjoyed Baron, however, was very certain. Obviously this—this Queen woman, whoever she was, had been stealing children but Roland had beaten her, oh yes, and helped these two young children to get back as well.

Her mother had insisted on Tiffany’s going to bed, even though it was broad daylight. Actually, she
didn’t
mind. She was tired, and lay under the covers in that nice pink world halfway between asleep and awake.

She heard the Baron and her father talking downstairs. She heard the story being woven between them as they tried to make sense of it all. Obviously the girl had been very brave (this was the Baron speaking), but well, she was nine, wasn’t she? And didn’t even know how to use a sword! Whereas Roland had had fencing lessons at his school…

And so it went on. There were other things she heard her parents discussing later, when the Baron had gone. There was the way Ratbag now lived on the roof, for example.

Tiffany lay in bed and smelled the ointment her mother had rubbed into her temples. Tiffany must have been hit on the head, she’d said, because of the way she kept on touching it.

So…Roland with the beefy face was the hero, was he? And she was just like the stupid princess who broke her ankle and fainted all the time? That was
completely
unfair!

She reached out to the little table beside her bed where she’d put the invisible hat. Her mother had put down a cup of broth right through it, but it was still there. Tiffany’s fingers felt, very faintly, the roughness of the brim.

We never ask for any reward, she thought. Besides, it was her secret, all of it. No one else knew about the Wee Free Men. Admittedly Wentworth had taken to running through the house with a tablecloth around his waist shouting, “Weewee mens! I’ll scone you in the boot!” but Mrs. Aching was still so glad to see him back, and so happy that he was talking about things other than sweets, that she wasn’t paying too much attention to what he
was
talking about.

No, she couldn’t tell anyone. They’d never believe her, and suppose that they did, and went up and poked around in the pictsies’ mound? She couldn’t let that happen.

What would Granny Aching have done?

Granny Aching would have said nothing. Granny Aching often said nothing. She just smiled to herself, and puffed on her pipe, and waited until the right time.

Tiffany smiled to herself.

She slept, and didn’t dream.

And a day went past.

And another day.

On the third day it rained. Tiffany went into the kitchen when no one was about and took down the china shepherdess from the shelf. She put it in a sack, then slipped out of the house and ran up onto the downs.

The worst of the weather was going to either side of the Chalk, which cut through the clouds like the prow of a ship. But when Tiffany reached the spot where an old stove and four iron wheels stood out of the grass, and cut a square of turf, and carefully chipped out a hole for the china shepherdess, and then put the turf back…it was raining hard enough to soak in and give the turf a chance of surviving. It seemed the right thing to do. And she was sure she caught a whiff of tobacco.

Then she went to the pictsies’ mound. She’d worried about that. She knew they were there, didn’t she? So, somehow, going to check that they were there would be sort of showing that she doubted if they would be, wouldn’t it? They were busy people. They had lots to do. They had the old kelda to mourn. They were probably very busy. That’s what she told herself. It wasn’t because she kept wondering if there
really
might be nothing down the hole but rabbits. It wasn’t that at all.

She was the kelda. She had a duty.

She heard music. She heard voices. And then sudden silence as she peered into the gloom.

She carefully took a bottle of Special Sheep Liniment out of her
sack and let it slide into darkness.

Tiffany walked away and heard the faint music start up again.

She did wave at a buzzard, circling lazily under the clouds, and she was sure a tiny dot waved back.

On the fourth day Tiffany made butter and did her chores. She did have help.

“And now I want you to go and feed the chickens,” she said to Wentworth. “What is it I want you to do?”

“Fee’ the cluck-clucks,” said Wentworth.

“Chickens,” said Tiffany severely.

“Chickens,” said Wentworth obediently.

“And wipe your nose
not on your sleeve
! I gave you a handkerchief. And on the way back see if you can carry a whole log, will you?”

“Ach, crivens,” muttered Wentworth.

“And what is it we don’t say?” said Tiffany. “We don’t say the—”

“—the crivens word,” Wentworth muttered.

“And we don’t say it in front of—”

“—in fron’ of Mummy,” said Wentworth.

“Good. And then when I’ve finished, we’ll have time to go down to the river.”

Wentworth brightened up.

“Weewee mens?” he said.

Tiffany didn’t reply immediately.

She hadn’t seen a single Feegle since she’d been home.

“There might be,” she said. “But they’re probably very busy. They’ve got to find another kelda, and…well, they’re very busy. I expect.”

“Weewee men say hit you in the head, fish face!” said Wentworth happily.

“We’ll see,” said Tiffany, feeling like a parent. “Now please go and get the eggs.”

When he’d wandered away, carrying the egg basket in both hands, Tiffany turned out some butter onto the marble slab and picked up the paddles to pat it into, well, a pat of butter. Then she’d stamp it with one of the wooden stamps. People appreciated a little picture on their butter.

As she began to shape the butter, she was aware of a shadow in the doorway and turned.

It was Roland.

He looked at her, his face even redder than usual. He was twiddling his very expensive hat nervously, just like Rob Anybody did.

“Yes?” she said.

“Look, about…well, about all that…about…” Roland began.

“Yes?”

“Look, I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t lie to anyone or anything,” he blurted out. “But my father just sort of assumed I’d been a hero, and he just wouldn’t listen to anything I said even after I told him how…how…”

“Helpful I’d been?” said Tiffany.

“Yes…I mean, no! He said, he said, he said it was lucky for you I was there, he said—”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Tiffany, picking up the butter paddles again.

“And he just kept telling everyone how brave I’d been and—”

“I said it doesn’t matter,” said Tiffany. The little paddles went
patpatpat
on the fresh butter.

Roland’s mouth opened and shut for a moment.

“You mean you don’t mind?” he said at last.

“No. I don’t mind,” said Tiffany.

“But it’s not fair!”

“We’re the only ones who know the truth,” said Tiffany.

Patapatpat.
Roland stared at the fat, rich butter as she calmly patted it into shape.

“Oh,” he said. “Er…you won’t tell anyone, will you? I mean, you’ve got every right to, but—”

Patapatapat.

“No one would believe me,” said Tiffany.

“I did try,” said Roland. “Honestly. I really did.”

I expect you did, Tiffany thought. But you’re not very clever, and the Baron certainly is a man without First Sight. He sees the world the way he wants to see it.

“One day you’ll be Baron, won’t you?” she said.

“Well, yes. One day. But look, are you really a witch?”

“
When you’re Baron
you’ll be good at it, I expect?” said Tiffany, turning the butter around. “Fair and generous and decent? You’ll pay good wages and look after the old people? You wouldn’t let people turn an old lady out of her house?”

“Well, I hope I—”

Tiffany turned to face him, a butter paddle in each hand.

“Because
I’ll
be there, you see. You’ll look up and see my eye on you. I’ll be there on the edge of the crowd. All the time. I’ll be watching everything, because I come from a long line of Aching people and this is my land. But you can be the Baron for us and I hope you’re a good one. If you are not…there will be a reckoning.”