There was silence in the great hall as the elves considered this development and their chances. And one bold elf said, ‘What about the King himself? Down in the barrow? What do you think he will say?’
‘Something like this,’ said Peaseblossom, hurling a feathered arrow at the elf, striking him down. Injured, but not dead. Good, Peaseblossom thought. More fun for me later. He gestured to his warriors and the stricken elf was dragged away. ‘To hell with the King!’ he said, and this time there was no argument.
Every elf knew that Peaseblossom wanted a showdown with the world of humans, of dwarfs and goblins and all the other peoples, wanted elves to run free and fierce through that world once again.
‘We have been elves since the dawn of time,’ Peaseblossom thundered. ‘Too long have humans had the upper hand. Upstart goblins will feel our wrath! The hootings of mechanical rubbish will be swept away! We will take back the world we have been denied!’ He smiled, and added softly, ‘Those who are not with us will suffer.’
In the world of the train and the swarf, iron could kill elves. But no elf wanted to be the one to feel the dreadful temper of Peaseblossom by gainsaying him. And they were very aware that he knew exactly how to make a short word like ‘suffer’ turn into a very long experience.
And as their new king’s glamour built and he stood tall and strong above them, they felt a sense of their world waking up once more.
‘What fools these mortals be!’ Peaseblossom roared. ‘They think they can stop us? They need us. They call to us. And we will come. We will make them want what they can’t have and we will give them nothing but our laughter. We will take everything!’
And the elves cheered.
Becky Pardon and Nancy Upright, dressed in their best, stood in trepidation in front of Miss Tick, who said, ‘It’s not all spells and broomsticks. It’s heavy work, sometimes. Sometimes quite nasty. Yes, Becky?’
‘I was there as my granddad died,’ said Becky, ‘and I watched all the things that had to be done. My dad said I shouldn’t, but my mother said, “Let the girl see. She’ll find out sooner or later how things are in the world.”’
‘What I want to know, girls, is that you can deal with magic. Both of you ought to have some basic magic, like blowing out a candle just by thought. What do you think we do with magic?’
Becky said, ‘You can cure warts. I know that one. My granny could do that. Magic can make you beautiful.’ Her tone was wistful, and Miss Tick looked a little more closely at her. Oh, a rather nasty birthmark on one cheek.
‘You can magic someone to be your best friend,’ Nancy added. ‘Or’ – with a bit of a blush – ‘make a boy like you.’
Miss Tick laughed. ‘Girls, I can tell you this, magic won’t make you beautiful if you are not. And it certainly won’t make you popular. It is not a toy.’
Her face even redder, Nancy said, ‘But about boys . . .’
Miss Tick’s face did not move a muscle, and then she said, ‘What about them?’ Nancy’s blush was now impressive – if she went any redder, Miss Tick thought, she would look like a lobster. Miss Tick continued, ‘You don’t have to use
spells to get boys, Nancy, and if you wish to know more about that, I daresay Mistress Tiffany will point you towards Nanny Ogg, or possibly your grandmother.’
‘Do you have a beau, mistress?’ asked Nancy.
‘No,’ said Miss Tick. ‘They get in the way. Now, let’s see if you can make a shamble. If you can’t do that you are very unlikely to be a witch. A shamble will give you focus.’ She flung her hand into the air and something was there. The very air seemed to be boiling. Dancing, fluttering . . . alive. And Miss Tick said, ‘See how the air moves, how it waits – it’s the place where my shamble could be. Where it could advise me.’ Suddenly, she had produced an egg in her hand, with some thread, twigs, a small nut. ‘These items I had about me could make that shamble,’ she said. She looked at the serious little faces, sighed and said, ‘But now it’s time for each of you to make your shamble, and it must have something living in it. Look, just shut your eyes and make a shamble out of anything you have with you.’
She watched them, their faces as solemn as a dirge as they pulled things out of their pockets. Miss Tick knew her witches, knew these girls had the innate magical talent, but to decide to train to be a witch was the kind of decision that took more than just a bit of talent. Hard work would have to come into it too. A lot of hard work. Even then it would not be easy, she knew. Apart from anything else, they had to have parents who would support their choice. A girl might be useful at home, helping with the younger children or working in a family business, for instance. That was before the question of grandchildren cropped up. And it always did, oh yes, always.
Miss Tick knew too that you can find out a lot about somebody from what’s in their pockets, and sometimes a lot about them from what they don’t have. She herself generally had a small cheese in one of her pockets – you couldn’t do good magic without a snack. Out loud, she said, ‘Even a worm is alive, so keeping one in a little box with some wet leaves will help.’
Nancy pulled off one of her boots, saying, ‘I’ve got a caterpillar in there.’
‘Well done,’ said Miss Tick. ‘You have been lucky, but being lucky is only part of being a witch.’
Becky looked rather glum. ‘I’ve got a hairpin – am I allowed to use that?’
Miss Tick sighed. ‘In your shamble? Of course, but you must still have something living. Butterflies or ants or things like that, but remember – you shouldn’t kill them. Let them fly free.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Becky. She rummaged around in the bushes behind them for a moment, then held up a large green hairy caterpillar.
‘Copycat!’ said Nancy.
Miss Tick laughed. ‘Part of being a witch is being clever. Using your eyes and learning from what you see. Well done, Becky.’ For Becky now had the caterpillar neatly trussed in a bit of old string, which also seemed to be knotted somehow around one of her fingers. Her other fingers were struggling to push the hairpin into the shamble.
Nancy pouted and held up her caterpillar, which appeared to be trying to burrow into a tuft of sheep’s wool.
There was a rumble of thunder and a strike of lightning and both girls said, ‘That was me, with my little shamble.’