Wintersmith - Terry Pratchett [102]
“No! I mean…no,” said Rob. “No, I reckon that’s enough for today, eh?”
Roland glanced up at the little barred window, high in the wall. “Yes, I’d better go and see my father,” he said, and the glow in his face faded. “It’s well past lunchtime. If I don’t see him every day, he forgets who I am.”
When the boy had gone, the Feegles looked at one another.
“That lad is no’ havin’ an easy life right noo,” said Rob Anybody.
“You’ve got tae admit he’s gettin’ better,” said Billy Bigchin.
“Oh, aye, I’ll warrant he’s no’ such a bunty as I thought, but that sword is far tae heavy for him, an’ it’ll take weeks tae get him any guid,” said Big Yan. “Ha’ we got weeks, Rob?”
Rob Anybody shrugged. “Who can tell?” he said. “He’s gonna be the Hero, come whut may. The big wee hag’ll meet the Wintersmith soon enough. She canna fight that. It’s like the hag o’ hags sez: Ye canna fight a story as old as that. It’ll find a way.” He cupped his hands. “C’mon lads, away tae the mound. We’ll come back tonight. Mebbe ye can’t make a Hero all in one go.”
Tiffany’s little brother was old enough to want to be considered older still, which is a dangerous ambition on a busy working farm, where there are big-hoofed horses and sheep dips and a hundred and one other places where a small person might not be noticed until it’s too late. But most of all he liked water. When you couldn’t find him, he was usually down by the river, fishing. He loved the river, which was a bit surprising since a huge green monster had once leaped out of it to eat him. However, Tiffany had hit it in the mouth with an iron frying pan. Since he’d been eating sweets at the time, Wentworth’s only comment afterward had been, “Tiffy hit fish go bang.” But he did seem to be growing up as a skilled angler. He was fishing this afternoon. He’d found the knack of knowing where the monsters were. The really big pike lurked in the deep, black holes, thinking slow hungry thoughts until Wentworth’s silver lure dropped almost into their mouths.
When Tiffany went to call him in, she met him staggering up the path, much disheveled, and carrying a fish that looked as if it weighed at least half as much as he did.
“It’s the big one!” he shouted as soon as he saw her. “Abe reckoned it was tucked in under the fallen willow, you know? He said they’ll snap at anything this time of year! It pulled me over, but I held on! Must weigh at least thirty pounds!”
About twenty, thought Tiffany, but fish are always much heavier to the man who catches them.
“Well done. But come on in, it’s going to freeze,” she said.
“Can I have it for supper? It took ages to get in the net! It’s at least thirty-five pounds!” Wentworth said, struggling under the load. Tiffany knew better than to offer to carry it. That would be an insult.
“No, it has to be cleaned and soaked for a day, and Mum’s done stew for tonight. But I’ll cook it for you tomorrow with ginger sauce.”
“And there’ll be enough for everyone,” said Wentworth happily, “because it weighs at least forty pounds!”
“Easily,” Tiffany agreed.
And that night, after the fish had been duly admired by everyone and found to weigh twenty-three pounds with Tiffany’s hand on the scales helping it along a bit, she went into the scullery and cleaned the fish, which was a nice way of talking about pulling out or cutting off everything that you shouldn’t eat, which if Tiffany had her way meant the whole fish. She didn’t much like pike, but a witch should never turn up her nose at food, especially free food, and at least a good sauce would stop it tasting of pike.
Then, as she was tipping the innards into the pig bucket, she saw the glint of silver. Well, you couldn’t exactly blame Wentworth for being too excited to extract the lure.
She reached down and pulled out, covered with slime and scales but very recognizably itself, the silver horse.
There should have been a roll of thunder. There was just Wentworth, in the next room, telling for the tenth time about the heroic capture of the monster fish. There