The Shepherd's Crown by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online

they were always there – always, watching over her, making sure no harm came to their big wee hag.
    But there was something differenttoday. This lurking was somehow not like their usual lurking, and . . .
    ‘Oh, waily waily,’ came a voice. It was Daft Wullie, a Feegle who had been somewhere else when the brains of a Feegle – small enough to begin with – had been handed out. He was shut up suddenly with a ‘whmpf’ as Rob slapped a hand over his mouth.
    ‘Shut yer gob, Wullie. This is hag business, ye ken,’ he said, stepping outto stand in front of Tiffany, shuffling his feet and twiddling his rabbit-skull helmet in his hands. ‘It’s the big hag,’ he continued. ‘Jeannie tol’ me to come fetch ye . . .’
    All the birds of the day, the bats and the owls of the night knew Tiffany Aching and didn’t fly in her way when she was busy, and the stick ploughed on through the air to Lancre. The little kingdom was a long flight fromthe Chalk and Tiffany found her mind filling up with an invisible grey mist, and in that thought there was nothing but grief. She could feel herself trying to push back time, but even the best witchcraft could not do that. She tried not to think, but it’s hard to stop your brain working, no matter how much you try. Tiffany was a witch, and a witch learned to respect her forebodings, even if shehoped that what she feared was not true.
    It was early evening by the time she settled her broomstick down quietly outside Granny Weatherwax’s cottage, where she saw the unmistakable rotund shape of Nanny Ogg. The older witch had a pint mug in one hand and looked grey.
    The cat, You, jumped off the broomstick instantly and headed into the cottage. The Nac Mac Feegles followed, making You scuttlejust a little faster in that way cats scuttle when they want to look like, oh yes, it was their decision to speed up and, oh no, nothing to do with the little red-haired figures melting into the shadows of the cottage.
    ‘Good to see you, Tiff,’ said Nanny Ogg.
    ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ said Tiffany.
    ‘Yes,’ said Nanny. ‘Esme’s gone. In her sleep, last night, by the looks of it.’
    ‘I knew it,’said Tiffany. ‘Her cat came to tell me. And the kelda sent Rob . . .’
    Nanny Ogg looked Tiffany in the face and said, ‘Glad to see you’re not cryin’, my dear; that’s for later. You knows how Granny wanted things: no fuss or shoutin’, and definitely no cryin’. There’s other things as must be done first. Can you help, Tiff? She’s upstairs and you know what them stairs is like.’
    Tiffany looked andsaw the long, thin wicker basket that Granny had made, waiting by the stairs. It was almost exactly the same size as Granny. Minus her hat, of course.
    Nanny said, ‘That’s Esme for you, that is. Does everything for ’erself.’
    Granny Weatherwax’s cottage was largely built of creaks, and you could play a tune with them if you wanted to. With accompaniment from the harmonious woodwork, Tiffany followedNanny Ogg as she huffed and puffed up the cramped little staircase that wound up and round like a snake – Nanny always said that you needed a corkscrew to get through it – until they arrived at the bedroom and the small, sad deathbed.
    It could, Tiffany thought, have been the bed of a child, and there, laid out properly, was Granny Weatherwax herself, looking as if she was just sleeping. And theretoo, on the bed by her mistress, was You the cat.
    There was a familiar card on Granny’s chest, and a sudden thought struck Tiffany like a gong.
    ‘Nanny, you don’t suppose Granny could just be Borrowing, do you? Do you think that while her body is here, her actual self is . . . elsewhere?’ She looked at the white cat curled upon the bed and added hopefully, ‘In You?’
    Granny Weatherwax had beenan expert at Borrowing – moving her mind into that of another creature, using its body, sharing its experiences. fn2 It was dangerous witchery, for an