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The God in the Barrow
IN THE DARK of the night, down in the Chalk, the wheel was definitely stuck in the old ways – just the way three elves dancing through the gloom of the woods liked it. This world was here for their pleasure, to entertain them, delight them. And the creatures within it were no more than toys; toys that sometimes squealed and ran and shrieked as the elves laughed and sang.
Now they spotted a small home, a poor-looking dwelling with a window slightly ajar. From within came the sound of babies, gurgling happily in their sleep, their bellies full of their mother’s milk, their limbs curled beneath the covers of their cots.
The elves grinned at each other and licked their lips in anticipation. Babies!
Faces now at the window. Predatory faces, with the eyes of hunters.
Then a hand reached in and tickled the nearest infant under the chin, the little girl waking and gazing in delight at the glorious creature leaning over her, his glamour shining radiantly in the dark room. Her little fingers stretched to touch a beautiful feather . . .
Tiffany’s happiness lasted until just after she had gone to bed, when there was a sudden tickling in her head, and in her inner eye she saw young Tiffany Robinson – the baby she had not had time to see yet this week, the little girl on whom she had placed a tracking spell.
But this was not just neglect by baby Tiffany’s mum and dad.
The elves had taken her!
Tiffany’s broomstick could not go fast enough. In a piece of woodland she found a group of three elves toying with the little girl, and what was inside her was not anger. It was something more forensic than that, and as the stick went onwards, Tiffany let her feelings flame up . . . and release.
The elves were laughing, but as Tiffany swooped down, she sent fire blazing from her fingertips and into them and watched them burn. She was shuddering with her fury, a fury so intense it was threatening to overcome her. If she met any more elves that night, they too would be dead.
And she had to stop herself there, suddenly appalled at what she had done. Only a witch gone to the dark would kill, she screamed at herself inside her head.
And another voice said, But they were just elves. And they were hurting the baby.
The first voice came sneakily back with, But Nightshade is also just an elf . . .
And Tiffany knew that if a witch started thinking of anyone as ‘just’ anything, that would be the first step on a
well-worn path that could lead to, oh, to poisoned apples, spinning wheels and a too-small stove . . . and to pain, and terror, and horror and the darkness.
But it was done. And a witch had to be practical, so Tiffany wrapped her shawl around the baby and slowly flew to the Robinsons’ house – ‘shack’ being, in fact, a better word for the little dwelling. Young Mister Robinson opened the door to her knocking. He looked surprised, especially when Tiffany showed him his baby daughter, swaddled in her witch’s shawl.
She walked past him and confronted his wife, thinking, They are young, yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to be stupid. Leaving the windows open at this time of year? Surely everybody knows about elves . . .
My mother said I never should . . .
Play with the fairies in the wood . . .
‘Well,’ said Milly, ‘I checked the boys. They seemed to be all right.’ She blushed as Tiffany handed her the baby, and Tiffany caught it.
‘Let me tell you something, Milly. Your girl has a great future before her. I’m a witch, so I know it. Because you’ve let me name her, I will see to it that my namesake has what she needs – and mind, it is your girl I am talking about. In some way, she’s partly mine. Those great big boys of yours will look after themselves. Now don’t leave your windows open on nights like this! There are always watchers. You know it! Let no harm attend her.’
Tiffany almost shouted the last bit. This family needed a little prod every so often, and she would see to it. Oh yes, she would. And if they neglected their duty, well, there would be a reckoning. Maybe just a little reckoning, to make them understand.
But right now, as she headed home, she knew she needed to talk to another witch.
She grabbed a warm cloak from her bedroom, then saw the gleam of the shepherd’s crown on the shelf and, on a sudden impulse, tucked it into her pocket. Her fingers curled around the odd-shaped little stone, tracing its five ridges, and somehow she felt a strength flow into her, the hardness of the flint at its heart reminding her who she was. I need to keep a piece of the Chalk with me, she realized. My land gives me strength, supports me. It reminds me who I am. I am not a killer. I am Tiffany Aching, witch of the Chalk. And I need my land with me.
She sped through the night sky, back to Lancre, the cool of the air rushing past, the eyes of the owls watching her in the moonlight.
It was almost dawn when she arrived at Nanny Ogg’s home. Nanny was already up, or rather she hadn’t yet got down, since she had spent the night at a deathbed. She opened her door and blanched a little when she saw Tiffany’s face.
‘Elves?’ she asked grimly. ‘Magrat told me, you know. You got trouble over in the Chalk?’
Tiffany nodded, any calm deserting her as tears suddenly choked her voice. And over the requisite cup of tea in Nanny’s warm kitchen, she told her what had happened.
Then she came to the bit of the story which she struggled to get out. All she could say was, ‘The elves. With little Tiffany. They were going to . . .’ She choked a little, then, ‘I killed all three of them,’ she wailed. She looked despairingly at Nanny.
