Wintersmith (29 page)

Roland closed his eyes and then reached up to touch them.

“I can still see! But my eyes are shut!”

“Aye! And ye’ll see more wi’ yer een shut. Look aroond ye, if ye dare!”

Roland, his eyes shut, took a few steps forward and looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed. Perhaps things were slightly more gloomy. And then he saw it—a flash of bright orange, a line in the dark that came and went.

“What was that?” he asked.

“We dinna ken whut they call themselves. We call ’em bogles,” said Rob.

“They are flashes of light?”

“Ach, that one was a long way away,” said Rob. “If ye want tae see one close up, it’s standin’ right beside ye….”

Roland spun around.

“Ah, ye see, ye made a classic mistake right there,” said Rob, conversationally. “Ye opened yer eyes!”

Roland shut his eyes. The bogle was standing six inches away from him.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream. Hundreds of Feegles were watching him, he knew.

At first he thought: It’s a skeleton. When it flashed again, it looked like a bird, a tall bird like a heron. Then it was a stick figure, like a kid would draw. Over and over again it scribbled itself against the darkness in thin, burning lines.

It scribbled itself a mouth and leaned forward for a moment, showing hundreds of needle teeth. Then it vanished.

There was a murmur from the Feegles.

“Aye, ye done weel,” said Rob Anybody. “Ye stared it in the mouth and ye didna take so much as a step back.”

“Mr. Anybody, I was too scared to run,” Roland muttered.

Rob Anybody leaned down until he was level with the boy’s ear.

“Aye,” he whispered, “I ken that well enough! There be a lot o’ men who became heroes ’cuz they wuz too scared tae run! But ye didna yell nor cack yer kecks, an’ that’s good. There’ll be more o’ them as we go on. Dinna let them intae yer heid! Keep ’em oot!”

“Why, what do they—? No, don’t tell me!” said Roland.

He walked on through the shadows, blinking so he wouldn’t miss anything. The old woman had gone, but the gloom began to fill up with people. Mostly they stood by themselves, or sat on chairs. Some wandered around quietly. They passed a man in ancient clothing who was staring at his own hand as though he were seeing it for the first time.

There was a woman swaying gently and singing a nonsense song in a quiet, little-girl voice. She gave Roland a strange, mad smile as he walked past. Right behind her stood a bogle.

“All right,” said Roland grimly. “Now tell me what they do.”

“They eat yer memories,” said Rob Anybody. “Yer thoughts is real tae them. Wishes an’ hope are like food! They’re vermin, really. This is whut happens when these places are no’ looked after.”

“And how can I kill them?”

“Oh, that was a verra nasty voice ye just used. Hark at the big wee hero! Dinna bother aboot them, laddie. They won’t attack ye yet, and we’ve got a job tae do.”

“I hate this place!”

“Aye, hells is a lot more lively,” said Rob Anybody. “Slow doon now—we’re at the river.”

A river ran through the Underworld. It was as dark as the soil, and lapped at its banks in a slow, oily way.

“Ah, I think I’ve heard of this,” said Roland. “There’s a ferryman, right?”

Y
ES
.

He was there, suddenly, standing in a long, low boat. He was all in black, of course in black, with a deep hood that entirely concealed his face and gave a definite feeling that this was just as well.

“Hi, pal,” said Rob Anybody cheerfully. “How’re ye doin’?”

O
H NO
,
NOT YOU PEOPLE AGAIN
, said the dark figure in a voice that was not so much heard as felt. I
THOUGHT YOU WERE BANNED
.

“Just a wee misunderstandin’, ye ken,” said Rob, sliding down Roland’s armor. “Ye have tae let us in, ’cuz we’s deid already.”

The figure extended an arm. The black robe fell away, and what pointed at Roland looked, to him, very much like a bony finger.

B
UT
HE
MUST PAY THE FERRYMAN
, he said accusingly, in a voice of crypts and graveyards.

“Not until I’m on the other side,” Roland said firmly.

“Oh, c’mon!” said Daft Wullie to the ferryman. “Ye can see he’s a Hero! If ye canna trust a Hero, who can ye trust?”

The cowl regarded Roland for what seemed like a hundred years.

O
H
,
VERY WELL THEN
.

The Feegles swarmed aboard the rotting boat with their usual enthusiasm and cries of “Crivens!” “Where’s the booze on this cruise?” and “We’re right oot in the Styx noo!” and Roland climbed in with care, watching the ferryman suspiciously.

The figure pulled on the big oar, and they set off with a creak and then, regrettably, and to the ferryman’s disgust, to the sound of singing. More or less singing, that is, at every possible speed and tempo and with no regard at all for the tune:

“Row row yer row boat boat boaty boat down boat stream boat merrily stream like a bird on the boa—”

W
ILL YOU SHUT UP
?

“—bonny boat row stream stream boat boat row yer boat down the merrily stream row merrily merrily boat—”

T
HIS IS HARDLY APPROPRIATE
!

“Down the boat boat down the merrily stream stream stream merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily merrily boat!”

“Mr. Anybody?” said Roland as they glided jerkily along.

“Aye?”

“Why am I sitting next to a blue cheese with a bit of tartan wrapped around it?”

“Ah, that’d be Horace,” said Rob Anybody. “He’s Daft Wullie’s pal. He’s no’ bein’ a nuisance, is he?”

“No. But he’s trying to sing!”

“Aye, all blue cheeses hum a bit.”

“Mnamnam mnam mnamnam,” sang Horace.

The boat bumped against the far bank, and the ferryman stepped ashore quickly.

Rob Anybody scrambled up Roland’s ragged chain-mail sleeve and whispered: “When I gi’e ye the word, run for it!”

“But I can pay the ferryman. I have the money,” said Roland, patting his pocket.

“You whut?” said the Feegle, as if this were some strange and dangerous idea.

“I have the money,” Roland repeated. “Two pennies is the rate
to cross the River of the Dead. It’s an old tradition. Two pennies to put on the eyes of the dead, to pay the ferryman.”

“Whut a clever man ye are, to be sure,” said Rob as Roland dropped two copper coins into the ferryman’s bony hand. “An’ did ye no’ think tae bring four pennies?”

“The book just said the dead take two,” said Roland.

“Aye, mebbe they do,” Rob agreed, “but that’s ’cuz the deid dinna expect tae be comin’ back!”

Roland looked back across the dark river. Flashes of orange light were thick on the bank they’d left.

“Mr. Anybody, I was once a prisoner of the Queen of Fairyland.”

“Aye, I ken that.”

“It was for a year in this world, but it only seemed like a few days there…except that the weeks passed like centuries. It was so…dull, I could hardly remember anything after a while. Not my name, not the feel of sunshine, not the taste of real food.”

“Aye, we ken that—we helped tae rescue ye. Ye niver say thanks, but ye wuz oot o’ yer skull the whole time, so we didna take offense.”

“Then allow me to thank you now, Mr. Anybody.”

“Dinna mention it. Anytime. Happy tae oblige.”

“She had pets that fed you dreams until you died of hunger. I hate things that try to take away what you are. I want to kill those things, Mr. Anybody. I want to kill all of them. When you take away memories, you take away the person. Everything they are.”

“’Tis a fine ambition ye’ve got there,” said Rob. “But we ha’ got a wee job tae do, ye ken. Aw crivens, this is whut happens when things get sloppy an’ bogles take over.”

There was a big pile of bones on the path. They were certainly
animal bones, and the rotting collars and lengths of rusted chain were another clue.

“Three big dogs?” said Roland.

“One verra big dog wi’ three heads,” said Rob Anybody. “Verra popular in underworlds, that breed. Can bite right through a man’s throat. Three times!” he added with relish. “But put three doggy biscuits in a row on the groond, an’ the puir wee thing sits there strainin’ an’ whinin’ all day. It’s a wee laff, I’m tellin’ ye!” He kicked at the bones. “Aye, time wuz when places like this had some pers’nality. Look, see what they’ve done here, too.”

Farther along the path was what was probably a demon. It had a horrible face, with so many fangs that some of them must have been just for show. There were wings, too, but they couldn’t possibly have lifted it. It had found a piece of mirror, and every few seconds it took a peep into it and shuddered.

“Mr. Anybody,” said Roland, “is there anything down here that this sword I’m carrying could kill?”

“Ah, no. No’ kill,” said Rob Anybody. “No’ bogles. No’ as such. It’s no’ a magic sword, see?”

“Then why am I dragging it along?”

“’Cuz ye are a Hero. Who ever heard o’a Hero wi’oot a sword?”

Roland tugged the sword out of its scabbard. It was heavy and not at all like the flying, darting silver thing that he’d imagined in front of the mirror. It was more like a metal club with an edge.

He gripped it in both hands and managed to hurl it out into the middle of the slow, dark river.

Just before it hit the water, a white arm rose and caught it. The hand waved the sword a couple of times and then disappeared with it under the water.

“Was that supposed to happen?” he asked.

“A man throwin’ his sword awa’?” yelled Rob. “No! Ye’re no’ supposed tae bung a guid sword intae the drinkie!”

“No, I mean the hand,” said Roland. “It just—”

“Ach, they turn up sometimes.” Rob Anybody waved a hand as if midstream underwater sword jugglers were an everyday occurrence. “But ye’ve got no weapon noo!”

“You said swords can’t hurt bogles!”

“Aye, but it’s the look o’ the thing, okay?” said Rob, hurrying on.

“But not having a sword should make me
more
heroic, right?” said Roland, as the rest of the Feegles trotted after them.

“Technic’ly, aye,” said Rob Anybody reluctantly. “But mebbe also more deid.”

“Besides, I have a Plan,” said Roland.

“Ye have a Plan?” said Rob.

“Yes. I mean aye.”

“Writted doon?”

“I’ve only just thought of—” Roland stopped. The ever-shifting shadows had parted, and a big cave lay ahead.

In the center of it, surrounding what looked like a rock slab, was a dim yellow glow. There was a small figure lying on the slab.

“Here we are,” said Rob Anybody. “That wasna so bad, aye?”

Roland blinked. Hundreds of bogles were clustered around the slab, but at a distance, as if they were not keen on going any closer.

“I can see…someone lying down,” he said.

“That’s Summer herself,” said Rob. “We have tae be canny aboot this.”

“Canny?”

“Like…careful,” said Rob helpfully. “Goddesses can be a wee bit tricky. Verra image conscious.”

“Don’t we just…you know, grab her and run?” said Roland.

“Oh, aye, we’ll end up doin’ somethin’ like that,” said Rob. “But you, mister, will have tae be the one tae kiss her first. You okay wi’ that?”

Roland looked a bit strained, but he said: “Yes…er, fine.”

“The ladies expect it, ye ken,” Rob went on.

“And then we run for it?” said Roland hopefully.

“Aye, ’cuz probably that’s when the bogles will try an’ stop us gettin’ awa.’ It’s people leavin’ that they don’t like. Off ye go, laddie.”

I’ve got a Plan, thought Roland, walking toward the slab. And I’ll concentrate on it so that I don’t think about the fact that I’m walking through a crowd of scribbly monsters that are only there if I blink and my eyes are watering. What’s in my head is real to them, right?

I’m going to blink, I’m going to blink, I’m going to…

…blink. It was over in a moment, but the shudder went on for a lot longer. They had been everywhere, and every toothy mouth was looking at him. It should not be possible to look with teeth.

He ran forward, eyes streaming with the effort of not closing, and looked down at the figure lying in the yellow glow. It was female, it was breathing, it was asleep, and it looked like Tiffany Aching.

From the top of the ice palace Tiffany could see for miles, and they were miles of snow. Only on the Chalk was there any sign of green. It was an island.

“You see how I learn?” said the Wintersmith. “The Chalk is yours. So there summer will come, and you will be happy. And you will be my bride and I will be happy. And everything will be
happy. Happiness is when things are correct. Now I am human, I understand these things.”

Don’t scream, don’t shout, said her Third Thoughts. Don’t freeze up, either.

“Oh…I see,” she said. “And the rest of the world will stay in winter?”

“No, there are some latitudes that never feel my frost,” said the Wintersmith. “But the mountains, the plains as far as the circle sea…oh, yes.”

“Millions of people will die!”

“But only once, you see. That is what makes it wonderful. And after that, no more death!”

And Tiffany saw it, like a Hogswatch card: birds frozen to their twigs, horses and cows standing still in the fields, frozen grass like daggers, no smoke from any chimney; a world without death because there was nothing left to die, and everything glittering like tinsel.

She nodded carefully. “Very…sensible,” she said. “But it would be a shame if nothing moved at all.”

“That would be easy. Snow people,” said the Wintersmith. “I can make them human!”

“Iron enough to make a nail?” said Tiffany.

“Yes! It is easy. I have eaten sausage! And I can think! I never thought before. I was a
part
. Now I am apart. Only when you are apart do you know who you are.”

“You made me roses of ice,” said Tiffany.

“Yes! Already I was becoming!”

But the roses melted at dawn, Tiffany added to herself, and glanced at the pale-yellow sun. It had just enough strength to make the Wintersmith sparkle. He does think like a human, she thought,
looking into the odd smile. He thinks like a human who’s never met another human. He’s cackling. He’s so mad, he will never understand how mad he is.