“Rob Anybody, I would be very grateful if you would do just that,” said Tiffany, “because I have a lot of people to bandage, if I’m any judge.”
Rob Anybody, suddenly looking like a man on a thankless errand, frantically said the words he had been told by his wife to say: “The kelda says there’s plenty more fish in the sea, miss!”
And Tiffany stood perfectly still for a moment and then, without looking at Rob, said quietly, “Do thank the kelda for her angling information. I have to get on, if you don’t mind, Rob. Do thank the kelda.”
Most of the crowd was reaching the bottom of the slope by now, to gawk or rescue or possibly attempt some amateur first aid on the groaning cheese runners. For the onlookers, of course, it was just another show; you didn’t often see a satisfying pileup of men and cheeses, and—who knew?—there might be some really interesting casualties.
Tiffany, glad of something to do, did not have to push her way through; the pointy black hat could create a path through a crowd faster than a holy man through a shallow sea. She waved the happy crowd away, with one or two forceful shoves for those of slow uptake. As a matter of fact, as it turned out, the butcher’s bill wasn’t too high this year, with one broken arm, one broken wrist, one broken leg, and an enormous number of bruises, cuts, and rashes being caused by people sliding most of the way down—grass isn’t always your friend. There were several young men clearly in distress as a result, but they were absolutely definite that they were not going to discuss their injuries with a lady, thank you all the same. So she told them to put a cold compress on the afflicted area, wherever it was, when they got home, and watched them walk unsteadily away.
Well, she’d done all right, hadn’t she? She had used her skills in front of the rubbernecking crowd and, according to what she overheard from the old men and women, had performed well enough. Perhaps she imagined that one or two people were embarrassed when an old man with a beard to his waist said with a grin, “A girl who can set bones would have no trouble finding a husband,” but that passed, and with nothing else to do, people started the long climb back up the hill… and then the coach came past, and then, which was worse, it stopped.
It had the coat of arms of the Keepsake family on the side. A young man stepped out. Quite handsome in his way, but also so stiff in his way that you could have ironed sheets on him. This was Roland. He hadn’t gone more than a step when a rather unpleasant voice from inside the coach told him that he should have waited for the footman to open the door for him and to hurry up, because they didn’t have all day.
The young man hurried toward the crowd and there was a general smartening-up because, after all, here came the son of the Baron, who owned most of the Chalk and nearly all their houses, and although he was a decent old boy, as old boys go, a little politeness to his family was definitely a wise move. . . .
“What happened here? Is everybody all right?” he said.
Life on the Chalk was generally pleasant and the relationship between master and man was one of mutual respect; but nevertheless, the farmworkers had inherited the idea that it could be unwise to have too many words with powerful people, in case any of those words turned out to be a word out of place. After all, there was still a torture chamber in the castle, and even though it hadn’t been used for hundreds of years . . . well, best to be on the safe side, best to stand back and let the witch do the talking. If she got into trouble, she could fly away.
“One of those accidents that was bound to happen, I’m afraid,” said Tiffany, well aware that she was the only woman present who had not curtsied. “Some broken bones that will mend and a few red faces. All sorted out, thank you.”
“So I see, so I see! Very well done, young lady!”
For a moment Tiffany thought she could taste her teeth. Young lady, from . . . him? It was almost, but not entirely, insulting. But no one else seemed to have noticed. It was, after all, the kind of language that nobs use when they are trying to be friendly and jolly. He’s trying to talk to them like his father does, she thought, but his father did it by instinct and was good at it. You can’t talk to people as though they are a public meeting. She said, “Thank you kindly, sir.”
Well, not too bad so far, except that now the coach door opened again and one dainty white foot touched the flint. It was her: Angelica or Letitia or something else out of the garden; in fact Tiffany knew full well it was Letitia, but surely she could be excused just a tiny touch of nasty in the privacy of her own head? Letitia! What a name. Halfway between a salad and a sneeze. Besides, who was Letitia to keep Roland away from the scouring fair? He should have been there! His father would have been there if the old man possibly could! And look! Tiny white shoes! How long would they last on somebody who had to do a jot of work? She stopped herself there: A bit of nasty was enough.
Letitia looked at Tiffany and the crowd with something like fear and said, “Do let’s get going, can we please? Mother is getting vexed.”
And so the coach left and the hurdy-gurdy man thankfully left and the sun left, and in the warm shadows of the twilight some people stayed. But Tiffany flew home alone, up high where only bats and owls could see her face.
Knighted in 2009, Sir Terence “Terry” Pratchett is best known for his Discworld novel series. He has more than 65 million books in print. I Shall Wear Midnight was published by Gollancz, Harper.
Here’s this year’s Rhysling Award winner in the short poem category.
TO THEIA
Ann H. Schwader
Theia, a hypothetical protoplanet, is central to the Great Impact Theory of the Moon’s origin.
That you were our meant earth, & not this other
flawed marble we crawl over, cling to, dream
in fits of leaving—surely this suspicion
once wove Atlantis through us, carved out Eden
between our ribs.
That we are shattered creatures,
our sacred texts assure us, but not why
the iron that marks our blood is restless, seeking
some heart beyond our hearts.
No second impact
remains to reunite our cores: Lagrange
holds only pebbled mercies, shooting stars
not worth the wishing on.
Come summer midnights
when song dogs serenade your final shard,
we cannot help but raise our faces also
to that remotest of reflected blessings
& howl you, Theia, as the home we lost.
Ann K. Schwader’s most recent collection of dark SF poems, Wild Hunt of the Stars (Sam’s Dot Publishing, 2010), was a Bram Stoker Award finalist. A comprehensive collection of her weird verse, Twisted In Dream (edited by S. T. Joshi), is forthcoming from Hippocampus Press. Her poems have appeared in Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Dreams & Nightmares, Weird Tales, Dark Wisdom, Tales of the Unanticipated, Weird Fiction Review, and elsewhere in the small and pro press. She is an active member of SFWA, HWA, and SFPA. A Wyoming native, Schwader lives and writes in suburban Colorado. Her author’s website is http://home.earthlink.net/~schwader/