The Wee Free Men (Discworld, #30; Tiffany Aching, #1)

by Terry Pratchett

There was a small part of Tiffany’s brain that wasn’t too certain about the name Tiffany. She was nine years old and felt that Tiffany was going to be a hard name to live up to. Besides, she’d decided only last week that she wanted to be a witch when she grew up, and she was certain Tiffany just wouldn’t work. People would laugh.

She’d read the dictionary all the way through. No one told her you weren’t supposed to.

And for as long as she could remember, she’d heard her father, an otherwise quiet, slow man, make the Joke, the one that must have been handed down from Aching to Aching for hundreds of years. He’d say, “Another day of work and I’m still Aching,” or “I get up Aching and I go to bed Aching,” or even “I’m Aching all over.”

Other shepherds would walk miles to get her to come and cure their beasts of ailments. They said she had the Touch, although she just said that the best medicine for sheep or man was a dose of turpentine, a good cussin’, and a kick.

They went to sleep under the stars, which the math teachers would count, the astronomy teachers would measure, and the literature teachers would name. The geography teachers got lost in the woods and fell into bear traps.

THE WONDERS OF PUNCTUATION AND SPELLING 1 ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY ABOUT THE COMMA! 2 I BEFORE E COMPLETELY SORTED OUT! 3 THE MYSTERY OF THE SEMICOLON REVEALED!!! 4 SEE THE AMPERSAND! (SMALL EXTRA CHARGE) 5 FUN WITH BRACKETS! ** WILL ACCEPT VEGETABLES, EGGS, AND CLEAN USED CLOTHING **

When she went closer, Tiffany saw a small notice pinned to the outside of the tent. It said, in letters that whispered rather than shouted: I CAN TEACH YOU A LESSON YOU WON’T FORGET IN A HURRY.

The woman stared at her. “That was an incredible feat of reasoning,” she said at last. “You’d make a good witch finder. You know they used to set fire to witches? Whatever kind of hat I’ve got on, you’d say it proves I’m a witch, yes?” “Well, the frog sitting on your hat is a bit of a clue, too,” said Tiffany. “I’m a toad, actually,” said the creature, which had been peering at Tiffany from between the paper flowers.

“Oh, you mean a pune, or play on words,” said Tiffany.*

“I can see we’re going to get along like a house on fire,” said Miss Tick. “There may be no survivors.”

“I’m not familiar,” said a voice from among the paper flowers. “I’m just slightly presumptuous.”

good. All witches have special interests, and I like children.” “Why?” “Because they’re much easier to fit in the oven,” said Miss Tick.

“Good. Now . . . if you trust in yourself . . .” “Yes?” “. . . and believe in your dreams . . .” “Yes?” “. . . and follow your star . . .” Miss Tick went on. “Yes?” “. . . you’ll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren’t so lazy. Good-bye.”

“I got ’im! I got ’im! I got ’im! Yer gonna get a gummer, ye wee hard disease!” “Someone bit ma leg! Someone bit ma leg!” “Come here! Ach, yer fightin’ yersels, ye eejits! Ah’m fed up wi’ the pairy yees!”

There was only one place where it was possible for someone in a large family to be private, and that was in the privy. It was a three-holer, and it was where everyone went if they wanted to be alone for a while. There was a candle in there, and last year’s Almanack hanging on a string. The printers knew their readership and printed the Almanack on soft, thin paper.

Tiffany. “So what are you?” There were unlimited supplies of no answer at all.

Tiffany heard the man shout: “Here’s a face full o’ dandruff for ye, yer bogle, courtesy of Big Yan!” and then the man hit the horse between the eyes with his head. To her amazement the horse staggered sideways. “Aw right?” shouted the tiny fighter. “Big toughie, is ye? Once more wi’ feelin’!”

“Nac Mac Feegles,” said the toad. “Also known as pictsies. They call themselves the Wee Free Men.”

“You’d better tell me what you know, toad,” said Tiffany. “Miss Tick isn’t here. I am.” “Another world is colliding with this one,” said the toad. “There. Happy now? That’s what Miss Tick thinks. But it’s happening faster than she expected. All the monsters are coming back.” “Why?” “There’s no one to stop them.” There was silence for a moment. “There’s me,” said Tiffany.

That’s the trouble with a brain—it thinks more than you sometimes want it to.

“Tell the wee hag who we are, lads,” said the helmet twiddler. There was the scrape of many small swords being drawn and thrust into the air. “Nac Mac Feegle! The Wee Free Men! Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna be fooled again!”

See their swords? They glow blue in the presence of lawyers.”

Great Hobbit reference

The very small pilot tried to look her up and down, but only managed to look her up and farther up. “Who’s the wee bigjob who knows sich a lot aboot aviation?” he said. Rob Anybody coughed. “She’s the hag, Hamish. Spawn o’ Granny Aching.” Hamish’s expression changed to a look of terror. “I didna mean to speak out o’ turn, mistress,” he said, backing away.

“On your honor as a drunken rowdy thief?” said Tiffany. Rob Anybody beamed. “Aye!” he said.

It was a great day. Tiffany was sick on cotton candy, had her fortune told by a little old lady who said that many, many men would want to marry her, and won the shepherdess, which was made of china painted white and blue.

The newcomer’s hair was white instead of red, and while he was tall for a pictsie, he was as skinny as a twig. He was holding some sort of fat skin bag, bristling with pipes. “Now there’s a sight I don’t reckon many humans have seen and lived,” said the toad. “He’s playing the mousepipes!” “They make my ears tingle!” Tiffany tried to ignore the two little ears still on the bag of pipes.

“What was your name, now?” “Tiffany, er, kelda.” Fion had turned up from some other part of the cave and was sitting down on a stool by the bed, watching Tiffany intently with a disapproving expression. “A good name. In our tongue you’d be Tir-far-thóinn, Land Under Wave,” said the kelda. It sounded like “Tiffan.”

’Tis the First Sight and Second Thoughts ye have, and ’tis a wee gift an’ a big curse to ye.

First Sight is when you can see what’s really there, not what your heid tells you ought to be there.

“Good. D’ye ken how to be weak? Can ye bow to the gale, can ye bend to the storm?” The kelda smiled again. “Nay, ye needna answer that. The wee burdie always has tae leap from the nest to see if it can fly.

“I daresay there’s room to wriggle past,” said the old kelda in the kind of calm voice that said a stormy voice could follow if people didn’t do what they were told.

The young Feegle flourished a set of mousepipes. “An’ they willna let me play doon there on account o’ them sayin’ my playin’ sounds like a spider tryin’ to fart through its ears, mistress.”

“And the birds don’t mind?” “Ach, no, mistress. All the birds and beasts up here know it’s good luck to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle, mistress.” “They do?” “Well, to tell ye the truth, mistress, it’s more that they know it’s unlucky not to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle.”

Tiffany lived on a farm. Any little beliefs that babies are delivered by storks or found under bushes tend to get sorted out early on if you live on a farm, especially when a cow is having a difficult calving in the middle of the night.

Unfortunately, since the pictsies were very individualistic, each one had his own cry and Tiffany could only make out a few over the din: “They can tak’ oour lives but they canna tak’ oour troousers!” “Ye’ll tak’ the high road an’ I’ll tak’ yer wallet!” “There can only be one t’ousand!” “Ach, stick it up yer trakkans!” But the voices gradually came together in one roar that shook the walls: “Nae King! Nae Quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna be fooled again!”

The low sun made the shadows lengthen. That was when the Chalk revealed its secrets. At some places, when the light was right, you could see the edges of old fields and tracks. The shadows showed up what brilliant noonlight couldn’t see. Tiffany had made up noonlight.

“Please, I don’t know what to do!” wailed Tiffany. William stared at her. “Ach, weel, yer no’ doin’ too badly so far,” he said, in a nicer tone of voice. “Ye got Rob Anybody out of marryin’ ye wi’oout breakin’ the rules, and ye’re a game lass, I’ll gi’ ye that. Ye’ll find the way if ye tak’ yer time. Just don’t stamp yer foot and expect the world to do yer biddin’. A’ ye’re doing is shoutin’ for sweeties, ye ken. Use yer eyes. Use yer heid.”

They think words are magical. . . .

“Cloggets are a trembling of the greebs in hoggets,” she read, “which can lead to inflammation of the lower pasks. If untreated, it may lead to the more serious condition of Sloke. Recommended treatment is the daily dosing with turpentine until there is no longer either any trembling, or turpentine, or sheep.”

“Aye. Ye did well, lassie.” Tiffany shook her head. “No, I didn’t,” she said. “I didn’t do any real magic. I don’t know how. I just looked at things and worked them out. It was cheating, really.” The pictsies looked at one another. “Ah, weel,” said Rob Anybody. “What’s magic, eh? Just wavin’ a stick an’ sayin’ a few wee magical words. An’ what’s so clever aboot that, eh? But lookin’ at things, really lookin’ at ’em, and then workin’ ’em oout, now, that’s a real skill.” “Aye, it is,” said William the gonnagle, to Tiffany’s surprise. “Ye used yer eyes and used yer heid. That’s what a real hag does. The magicking is just there for advertisin’.”

She stood in front of the stones and stretched out her hands on either side of her, and shut her eyes. Very slowly she stepped forward . . . Something crunched under her boots, but she didn’t open her eyes until she couldn’t feel the stones anymore. When she did open them . . . . . . it was a black-and-white landscape.

A lot of things happened at more or less the same time. All Tiffany’s teeth started to buzz. The pan vibrated in her hands and dropped onto the snow. The dog in front of her went cross-eyed and, instead of leaping, tumbled forward.

“Tell me what you’re not telling me,” said Tiffany. Daft Wullie was the first to speak. “That’s a lot o’ stuff,” he said. “For example, the meltin’ point o’ lead is—”

“Well, spiders spin webs. Dromes spin dreams. It’s easy in this place.

In Fairyland words really have power, Tiffany thought. And I am more real. I’ll remember that.

He urged the horse forward with a jerk, and then there was one of those long moments, a moment when the whole universe said, “Uh-oh” and, still holding the dagger, the boy swiveled around the horse and landed in the snow.

Even in a dream, even at a posh ball, the Nac Mac Feegle knew how to behave. You charged in madly, and you screamed . . . politely. “Lovely weather for the time o’ year, is it not, ye wee scunner!” “Hey, jimmy, ha’ ye no got a pommes frites for an ol’ pal?” “The band is playin’ divinely, I dinna think!” “Make my caviar deep fried, wilya?”

At a time like this it would be nice to have someone around to say something like “No! It’s too dangerous! Don’t do it!” Unfortunately, there wasn’t. She was going to commit an act of extreme bravery and no one would know if it all went wrong. That was frightening, but also . . . annoying. That was it—annoying. This place annoyed her. It was all stupid and strange. It was the same feeling she’d had when Jenny had leaped out of the river. Out of her river. And the Queen had taken her brother. Maybe it was selfish to think like that, but anger was better than fear. Fear was a damp cold mess, but anger had an edge. She could use it.

People who say things like “May all your dreams come true” should try living in one for five minutes.

Wentworth was sitting on a large, flat stone, surrounded by sweets. Many of them were bigger than he was. Smaller ones were in piles, large ones lay like logs. And they were in every color sweets can be, such as Not-Really-Raspberry Red, Fake-Lemon Yellow, Curiously-Chemical Orange, Some-Kind-of-Acidy Green, and Who-Knows-What Blue.