Wintersmith (30 page)

He just doesn’t have a clue what “human” means, he doesn’t know what horrors he’s planning, he just doesn’t…understand. And he’s so happy he’s almost sweet….

Rob Anybody banged on Roland’s helmet.

“Get on wi’ it, laddie,” he demanded.

Roland stared at the glowing figure. “This can’t be Tiffany!”

“Ach, she’s a goddess, she can look like anythin’,” said Rob Anybody. “Just a wee peck on the cheek, okay? Dinna get enthusiastic, we havena got all day. A wee peck an’ we’re offski.”

Something butted Roland on the ankle. It was a blue cheese.

“Dinna fash yerself aboot Horace—he just wants ye tae do the right thing,” said the mad Feegle whom Roland had come to know as Daft Wullie.

He went closer, with the glow crackling around him, because no man wants to be a coward in front of a cheese.

“This is kind of…embarrassing,” he said.

“Crivens, get
on
wi’ it, will ye?”

Roland leaned forward and pecked the sleeping cheek.

The sleeper opened her eyes, and he took a step back very quickly.

“That’s
not
Tiffany Aching!” he said, and blinked. Bogles were as thick around him as grass stems.

“Now take her by the hand an’ run,” said Rob Anybody. “The bogles will turn nasty when they see we’re leavin’.” He banged cheerfully on the side of the helmet and added: “But that’s okay, right? ’Cuz ye have a Plan!”

“I hope I’ve got it right, though,” said Roland. “My aunts say I’m too clever by half.”

“Glad tae hear it,” said Rob Anybody, “’cuz that’s much better than bein’ too stupid by three quarters! Now grab the lady an’ run!”

Roland tried to avoid the stare of the girl as he took her hand and pulled her gently off the slab. She said something in a language he couldn’t understand, except that it sounded as though there were a question mark on the end of it.

“I’m here to rescue you,” he said. She looked at him with the golden eyes of a snake.

“The sheep girl is in trouble,” she said, in a voice full of unpleasant echoes and hisses. “So sad,
so
sad.”

“Well, er, we’d better run,” he managed, “whoever you are….”

The not-Tiffany gave him a smile. It was an uncomfortable one, with a bit of a smirk in it. They ran.

“How do
you
fight the bogles?” he panted when the Feegle army jogged through the caves.

“Ach, they dinna like the taste o’ us overmuch,” said Rob Anybody as the shadows parted. “It may be ’cuz we think aboot the drinkin’ a lot—it makes ’em squiffy. Keep movin’!”

And it was at this point that the bogles struck, although that was hardly the right word. It was more like running into a wall of whispers. Nothing grabbed; there were no claws. If thousands of tiny weak things like shrimps or flies were trying to stop someone, this would be how it felt.

But the ferryman was waiting. He raised a hand as Roland staggered toward the boat.

T
HAT WILL BE SIX PENNIES
, he said.

“Six?” said Roland.

“Ah, we wasna doon here more’n two hour, an’ bang went
sixpence!” said Daft Wullie.

O
NE
O
NE
-D
AY
R
OUND
T
RIP
,
ONE
O
NE
-W
AY
, said the ferryman.

“I don’t have that much!” Roland shouted. He was beginning to feel little tugs in his head now. Thoughts had to push hard to get as far as his mouth.

“Leave this tae me,” said Rob Anybody. He turned to look down on his fellow Feegles and banged on Roland’s helmet for silence.

“Okay, lads,” he announced. “We’re no’ leavin’!”

W
HAT
? said the ferryman. O
H NO
,
YOU
LEAVE
! I’
M NOT HAVING YOU DOWN HERE AGAIN
! W
E
’
RE STILL FINDING THE BOTTLES FROM LAST TIME
! C
OME ON
,
GET ON THE BOAT THIS MINUTE
!

“Crivens, we canna do that, pal,” said Rob Anybody. “We’re under a geas to help this lad, ye ken. Where he disna go, we dinna go!”

P
EOPLE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO WANT TO STAY HERE
! snapped the ferryman.

“Ach, we’ll soon ha’ the old place jumpin’ again,” said Rob Anybody, grinning.

The ferryman drummed his fingers on the pole. They made a clicking sound, like dice.

O
H
,
ALL RIGHT THEN
. B
UT
—
AND
I
WANT TO BE CLEAR ON THIS
—
THERE IS TO BE NO SINGING
!

Roland dragged the girl onto the boat. The bogles kept clear of that, at least, but as the ferryman pushed away from the shore, Big Yan kicked Roland on the boot and pointed upward. Scribbles of orange light, hundreds of them, were moving across the roof of the cavern. There were more of them on the opposite shore.

“How’s the Plan goin’, Mister Hero?” asked Rob Anybody
quietly as he climbed down from the boy’s helmet.

“I’m waiting for the opportune moment,” said Roland haughtily. He turned to look at the not-Tiffany. “I’m here to get you out,” he said, trying not to look directly at her eyes.

“You?” said the not-Tiffany, as if the idea were amusing.

“Well, us,” Roland corrected himself. “Everything is—”

There was a bump as the boat grounded on the farther shore, where the bogles were as thick as standing corn.

“Off ye go, then,” said Big Yan.

Roland pulled the not-Tiffany along the path for a few steps, and stopped. When he blinked, the path ahead was a writhing orange mass. He could feel the little pulls on him, no stronger than a breeze. But they were in his brain, too. Cold, and nibbling. This was stupid. It couldn’t work. He wouldn’t be able to do it. He wasn’t any good at this sort of thing. He was wayward and inconsiderate and disobedient, just like his…aunts…said.

Behind him, Daft Wullie shouted, in his cheerful way, “Make yer aunties proud of ye!”

Roland half turned, suddenly angry. “My
aunts
? Let me tell you about my aunts—”

“No time, laddie!” shouted Rob Anybody. “Get on wi’ it!”

Roland looked around, his mind on fire.

Our memories are real, he thought. And I will not stand for this!

He turned to the not-Tiffany and said: “Don’t be afraid.” Then he held out his left hand and whispered, under his breath: “I remember…a sword….”

When he shut his eyes, there it was—so light he could barely feel it, so thin he could hardly see it, a line in the air that was made up mostly of sharpness. He’d killed a thousand enemies with it, in the mirror. It was never too heavy, it moved like part of him, and
here it was. A weapon that chopped away everything that clung and lied and stole.

“Mebbe ye
can
make a Hero all in one go,” said Rob Anybody thoughtfully, as bogles scribbled themselves into existence and died. He turned to Daft Wullie. “Daft Wullie?” he said. “Can ye bring to mind when it was I told ye that sometimes ye say
exactly the right thing
?”

Daft Wullie looked baffled. “Noo that ye mention it, Rob, I dinna recall ye ever sayin’ that, ever.”

“Aye?” said Rob. “Weel, if I had done, just now would ha’ been one o’ those times.”

Daft Wullie looked worried. “That’s all right though, aye? I said somethin’ right?”

“Aye. Ye did, Daft Wullie. A First. I’m proud o’ ye,” said Rob.

Daft Wullie’s face split in an enormous grin. “Crivens! Hey, lads, I said—”

“But dinna get carried awa’,” Rob added.

As Roland swung the airy blade, the bogles parted like spiderwebs. There were more, always more, but the silver line always found them, cutting him free. They backed away, tried new shapes, recoiled from the heat of the anger in his head. The sword hummed. Bogles curled around the blade and squealed, and sizzled into nothingness on the floor—

—and someone was banging on his helmet. They’d been doing so for quite a while.

“Huh?” he said, opening his eyes.

“Ye’ve run oot,” said Rob Anybody. His chest heaving, Roland looked around. Eyes open or shut, the caves were empty of orange streaks. The not-Tiffany was watching him with a strange smile on her face.

“Either we get oot noo,” said Rob, “or ye can hang aroond and wait for some more, mebbe?”

“An’ here they come,” said Billy Bigchin. He pointed across the river. A pure mass of orange was pouring into the cave, so many bogles that there was no space between them.

Roland hesitated, still fighting for breath.

“I’ll tell ye whut,” said Rob Anybody soothingly. “If ye are a guid boy an’ rescue the lady, we’ll bring ye doon here another time, wi’ some sandwiches so’s we can make a day o’ it.”

Roland blinked. “Er, yes,” he said. “Um…sorry. I don’t know what happened just then….”

“Offski time!” yelled Big Yan. Roland grabbed the hand of the not-Tiffany.

“An’ don’t look back until we’re well oot o’ here,” said Rob Anybody. “It’s kind of traditional.”

On the top of the tower, the ice crown appeared in the Wintersmith’s pale hands. It shone more than diamonds could, even in the pale sunlight. It was purest ice, without bubbles, lines, or flaw.

“I made this for you,” he said. “The Summer Lady will never wear it,” he added sadly.

It fit perfectly. It didn’t feel cold.

He stepped back.

“And now it is done,” said the Wintersmith.

“There is something I have to do, too,” said Tiffany. “But first there’s something I have to know. You found the things that make a man?”

“Yes!”

“How did you find out what they were?”

The Wintersmith proudly told her about the children, while
Tiffany breathed carefully, forcing herself to relax. His logic was very…logical. After all, if a carrot and two pieces of coal can make a heap of snow a snowman, then a big bucket of salts and gases and metal should certainly make him a human. It made…sense. At least, sense to the Wintersmith.

“But, you see, you need to know the whole song,” said Tiffany. “It is mostly only about what humans are made of. It isn’t about what humans
are
.”

“There were some things that I could not find,” said the Wintersmith. “They made no sense. They had no substance.”

“Yes,” said Tiffany, nodding sadly. “The last three lines, I expect, which are the whole point. I’m really sorry about that.”

“But I will find them,” said the Wintersmith. “I will!”

“I hope you do, one day,” said Tiffany. “Now, have you ever heard of Boffo?”

“What is this Boffo? It was not in the song!” said the Wintersmith, looking uneasy.

“Oh, Boffo is how humans change the world by fooling themselves,” said Tiffany. “It’s wonderful. And Boffo says that things have no power that humans don’t put there. You can make things magical, but you can’t magically make a human out of things. It’s just a nail in your heart. Only a nail.”

And the time has come and I know what to do, she thought dreamily. I know how the Story has to end. I must end it in the right kind of way.

She pulled the Wintersmith toward her and saw the look of astonishment on his face. She felt light-headed, as though her feet weren’t touching the floor. The world became…simpler. It was a tunnel, leading to the future. There was nothing to see but the Wintersmith’s cold face, nothing to hear but her own breathing,
nothing to feel but the warmth of the sun on her hair.

It wasn’t the fiery globe of summer, but it was still much bigger than any bonfire could ever be.

Where this takes me, there I choose to go, she told herself, letting the warmth pour into her. I choose. This I choose to do. And I’m going to have to stand on tiptoe, she added.

Thunder on my right hand. Lightning in my left hand.

Fire above me….

“Please,” she said, “take the winter away. Go back to your mountains. Please.”

Frost in front of me….

“No. I am Winter. I cannot be anything else.”

“Then you cannot be human,” said Tiffany. “The last three lines are: ‘Strength enough to build a home, Time enough to hold a child, Love enough to break a heart.’”

Balance…and it came quickly, out of nowhere, lifting her up inside.

The center of the seesaw does not move. It feels neither upness nor downness. It is balanced.

Balance…and his lips were like blue ice. She’d cry, later, for the Wintersmith who wanted to be human.

Balance…and the old kelda had once told her: “There’s a little bitty bit inside ye that willna melt and flow.”

Time to thaw.

She shut her eyes and kissed the Wintersmith…

…and drew down the sun.

Frost to fire.

The entire top of the ice palace melted in a flash of white light that cast shadows on walls a hundred miles away. A pillar of steam
roared up, stitched with lightning, and spread out above the world like an umbrella, covering the sun. Then it began to fall back as a soft, warm rain that punched little wormholes in the snow.

Tiffany, her head usually so full of thoughts, hadn’t got a thought to spare. She lay on a slab of ice in the soft rain and listened to the palace collapse around her.

There are times when everything that you can do has been done and there’s nothing for it now but to curl up and wait for the thunder to die down.

There was something else in the air, too, a golden glint that vanished when she tried to look at it and then turned up again in the corner of her eye.

The palace was melting like a waterfall. The slab she lay on half slid and half floated down a staircase that was turning into a river. Above her, huge pillars fell but went from ice to a gush of warm water in midair, so that what crashed down was spray.