Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

A Feegle Glossary, adjusted for those of a delicate disposition (A Work in Progress by Miss Perspicacia Tick)

Bigjobs: Human beings.

Big Man: Chief of the clan (usually the husband of the kelda).

Blethers: Rubbish, nonsense.

Boggin': To be desperate, as in "I'm boggin' for a cup of tea."

Bunty: A weak person.

Cack yer kecks: Er, to put it delicately…to be very, very frightened. As it were.

Carlin: Old woman.

Cludgie: The privy.

Crivens!: A general exclamation that can mean anything from "My goodness!" to "I've just lost my temper and there is going to be trouble."

Dree your/my/his/her weird: Face the fate that is in store for you/me/him/her.

Een: Eyes.

Eldritch: Weird, strange. Sometimes means oblong, too, for some reason.

Fash: Worry, upset.

Geas: A very important obligation, backed up by tradition and magic. Not a bird.

Gonnagle: The bard of the clan, skilled in musical instruments, poems, stories, and songs.

Hag: A witch of any age.

Hag o' hags: A very important witch.

Hagging/Haggling: Anything a witch does.

Hiddlins: Secrets.

Kelda: The female head of the clan, and eventually the mother of most of it. Feegle babies are very small, and a kelda will have hundreds in her lifetime.

Lang syne: Long ago.

Last World: The Feegles believe that they are dead. This world is so nice, they argue, that they must have been really good in a past life and then died and ended up here. Appearing to die here means merely going back to the Last World, which they believe is rather dull.

Mudlin: Useless person.

Pished: I am assured that this means "tired."

Schemie: An unpleasant person.

Scuggan: A really unpleasant person.

Scunner: A generally unpleasant person.

Ships: Woolly things that eat grass and go baa. Easily confused with the other kind.

Spavie: See Mudlin.

Special Sheep Liniment: Probably moonshine whisky, I am very sorry to say. No one knows what it'd do to sheep, but it is said that a drop of it is good for shepherds on a cold winter's night and for Feegles at any time at all. Do not try to make this at home.

Spog: A leather pouch, worn on the front of his belt, where a Feegle keeps his valuables and uneaten food, interesting insects, useful bits of twig, lucky dirt, and so on. It is not a good idea to fish around in a spog.

Steamie: Found only in the big Feegle mounds in the mountains, where there's enough water to allow regular bathing; it's a kind of sauna. Feegles on the Chalk tend to rely on the fact that you can get only so much dirt on you before it starts to fall off of its own accord.

Waily: A general cry of despair.

When the storm came, it hit the hills like a hammer. No sky should hold as much snow as this, and because no sky could, the snow fell, fell in a wall of white.

There was a small hill of snow where there had been, a few hours ago, a little cluster of thorn trees on an ancient mound. This time last year there had been a few early primroses; now there was just snow.

Part of the snow moved. A piece about the size of an apple rose up, with smoke pouring out around it. A hand no larger than a rabbit's paw waved the smoke away.

A very small but very angry blue face, with the lump of snow still balanced on top of it, looked out at the sudden white wilderness.

"Ach, crivens!" it grumbled. "Will ye no' look at this? 'Tis the work o' the Wintersmith! Noo there's a scunner that willna tak' ‘no' fra' an answer!"

Other lumps of snow were pushed up. More heads peered out.

"Oh waily, waily, waily!" said one of them. "He's found the big wee hag again!"

The first head turned toward this head, and said, "Daft Wullie?"

"Yes, Rob?"

"Did I no' tell ye to lay off that waily business?"

"Aye, Rob, ye did that," said the head addressed as Daft Wullie.

"So why did ye just do it?"

"Sorry, Rob. It kinda bursted oot."

"It's so dispiritin'."

"Sorry, Rob."

Rob Anybody sighed. "But I fear ye're right, Wullie. He's come for the big wee hag, right enough. Who's watchin' over her doon at the farm?"

"Wee Dangerous Spike, Rob."

Rob looked up at clouds so full of snow that they sagged in the middle.

"Okay," he said, and sighed again. "It's time fra' the Hero."

He ducked out of sight, the plug of snow dropping neatly back into place, and slid down into the heart of the Feegle mound.

It was quite big inside. A human could just about stand up in the middle, but would then bend double with coughing because the middle was where there was a hole to let smoke out.

All around the inner wall were tiers of galleries, and every one of them was packed with Feegles. Usually the place was awash with noise, but now it was frighteningly quiet.

Rob Anybody walked across the floor to the fire, where his wife, Jeannie, was waiting. She stood straight and proud, like a kelda should, but close up it seemed to him that she had been crying. He put his arm around her.

"All right, ye probably ken what's happenin'," he told the blue-and-red audience looking down on him. "This is nae common storm. The Wintersmith has found the big wee hag—noo then, settle doon!"

He waited until the shouting and sword rattling had died down, then went on: "We canna fight the Wintersmith for her! That's her road! We canna walk it for her! But the hag o' hags has set us on another path! It's a dark one, and dangerous!"

A cheer went up. Feegles liked the idea of this, at least.

"Right!" said Rob, satisfied. "Ah'm awa' tae fetch the Hero!"

There was a lot of laughter at this, and Big Yan, the tallest of the Feegles, shouted, "It's tae soon. We've only had time tae gie him a couple o' heroing lessons! He's still nae more than a big streak o' nothin'!"

"He'll be a Hero for the big wee hag and that's an end o' it," said Rob sharply. "Noo, off ye go, the whole boilin' o' ye! Tae the chalk pit! Dig me a path tae the Underworld!"

It had to be the Wintersmith, Tiffany Aching told herself, standing in front of her father in the freezing farmhouse. She could feel it out there. This wasn't normal weather even for midwinter, and this was springtime. It was a challenge. Or perhaps it was just a game. It was hard to tell, with the Wintersmith.

Only it can't be a game because the lambs are dying. I'm only just thirteen, and my father, and a lot of other people older than me, want me to do something. And I can't. The Wintersmith has found me again. He is here now, and I'm too weak.

It would be easier if they were bullying me, but no, they're begging. My father's face is gray with worry and he's begging. My father is begging me.

Oh no, he's taking his hat off. He's taking off his hat to speak to me!

They think magic comes free when I snap my fingers. But if I can't do this for them, now, what good am I? I can't let them see I'm afraid. Witches aren't allowed to be afraid.

And this is my fault. I: I started all this. I must finish it.

Mr. Aching cleared his throat.

"…And, er, if you could…er, magic it away, uh, or something? For us…?"

Everything in the room was gray, because the light from the windows was coming through snow. No one had wasted time digging the horrible stuff away from the houses. Every person who could hold a shovel was needed elsewhere, and still there were not enough of them. As it was, most people had been up all night, walking the flocks of yearlings, trying to keep the new lambs safe…in the dark, in the snow….

Her snow. It was a message to her. A challenge. A summons.

"All right," she said. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good girl," said her father, grinning with relief. No, not a good girl, thought Tiffany. I brought this on us.