Discworld by Terry Pratchett: Book Series Review

If you asked me what my favorite fictional world was, the world I’d most want to live in, the people I’d most want to show up at my door, the world I enjoy the most and spend the most time thinking about, it would be the Discworlda fantasy series by Terry Pratchett.

It seems like it’s not as well-known as it should be. Maybe that’s because I live in America. Or maybe it’s because I don’t have friends who read like I do. Or maybe I just had my head in the ground and didn’t notice. Whatever the case, I had heard of the series very briefly once or twice, but only to get it confused with Ringworld, the novel by Larry Niven (also a brilliant book).

I started reading it in 2015. I remember because I’d just moved to Korea. A lot of things happened that year. I graduated. I moved to Korea. I won NaNoWriMo. I started reading Discworld, and my world altered forever.

Books can do that. Don’t tell me I’m overreacting or being dramatic. I have found more heroes and more ideas to live by in Pratchett’s works than in any other series.

That’s probably due in part to its length. The Discworld series comprises 41 novels. That’s A LOT. It also means that Pratchett had a lot of time and space to develop his world and his characters. I’ll admit that his first books aren’t as meaningful or as well-written. You can see his style develop. You can see his characters grow. That’s part of what makes it so incredible.

(It reminds me of the reboot of Doctor Who starting in 2005. The show went on to become powerful and touching and to explore great depths of humanity, but first, it had to get through mannequins coming to life and spinning Christmas trees of death.)

Faith

Pratchett was an atheist, and yet, somehow his books give me more faith, not less. He pokes fun at pantheons and pretty much every religion, showing the hypocrisy and contradictions, and yet…he still shows us that humans must have faith. We must. Otherwise we aren’t human. And despite our hypocrisy and contradictions and members of each religion who do awful, stupid things, there are still people in each place and faith that do amazing things. In the end, people are people, and that seems to be the point.

Nobility

Pratchett’s characters are usually the non-hero types; Sam Vimes, jaded copper and alcoholic, Tiffany Aching, too young and too stubborn for her own good, Rincewind, professional coward and wizard, Moist von Lipwig, conman and scumbag, and a host of other memorable, larger-and-smaller-than-life characters.

They don’t believe in themselves. They have doubts. They’re up against things they’re not trained for, don’t have experience with, or are absolutely scared of, and time and again we see them overcome the odds. They aren’t incredible people. They are normal people who do amazing things. That’s what I love. I don’t like heroic types in books. Of course Hercules did amazing things, he’s Hercules. Give me your average Vimes who just does the job that’s in front of him and thereby saves the world from dragons. Give me your average Glenda who knows the ins and outs of a good pie and also shows the world how to love someone everyone hates. It’s in those times when people become noble. It’s in those times readers can be inspired to do great things, even in nongreat situations.

My Favorite Books and Why

  • Feet of Clay – I can’t pick a top favorite. I just can’t. But Feet of Clay might be it, gun to my head. I won’t give away the book because I think you should read it, but this book speaks to so many levels of human life and emotion; oppression, self-expression, creation, agony, love, duty…and yes, it’s laugh-out-loud funny. But I also cry every time I read it. That’s the power of a really good book, and it’s why I keep coming back to it. I’ve read this book through three times. I got my favorite quote from it on a bracelet.
  • The Hogfather – Another contender for all-time favorite, this book is one I read every Christmas. Yes, there’s a TV miniseries, but its, uh…well, let’s avoid it like we avoid live-action anime moves, yeah? The Hogfather is my favorite book about Death. Not death, the thing, but Death, the character. Death is sad and poignant and funny and earnest and dutiful and not a very good grandfather. His heart would be in the right place if he had one. This is the book from whence comes the greatest quotation on faith I’ve ever heard (see below).
  • Unseen Academicals – Honestly, I skip some parts of this book, and yet, it’s still on my top favorites list. Why? Well, the parts I skip are about soccer. Let’s leave it at that. But the reason it’s one of my favorites is because of two characters; Nutt and Glenda Sugarbean. They are the bravest and best. One of them is definitely not average and one of them definitely is. This book is also one that pulls at my heartstrings while simultaneously making me groan at the amazing punnery. It deals with racism, repression, learning that you can be what you want, not what you’ve been dealt in life, and so, so much more. Honesty. Integrity. Beauty. And soccer. Um. The bucket of crabs scene still gets me every time.
  • The Wee Free Men – This is the first book of the Tiffany Aching series. I love it because Tiffany is a child, with childish selfishness and childish dreams and yet, she has the capacity and the tenacity to save her world. As she grows through the series, we see more of her character develop. Tiffany is not a soft character. She’s tough, she’s often mean, but she always does what’s right. She’s also accompanied by tiny blue Scotsmen, and you just can’t go wrong with that.

Where to Start Reading

Those are just my top four books. I wanted to include about twenty others, but that’s half the series, and I decided to stop while I was ahead.

When I first started reading, it took me a while to get into it. The first couple of books are pretty much your basic fantasy. I didn’t much like Rincewind, and was more reading it to understand where other references had come from, so I had to push through the first few books until I got to Guards! Guards!. That’s where I got really and truly hooked.

So if you’re looking to start reading, you have a few options.

You can start at the beginning and go chronologically. It does make a difference, because the books build on each other and what’s happened in the world. I wouldn’t say it’s a must, though. You could start in the middle and fall in love and go back to read the others as sorts of prequels.

Depending on your kind of book, you might start with a series. The City Watch series centers around the fantastic city of Ankh-Morpork and a member of the Watch, Sam Vimes, as he struggles to remain average in a city full of weirdos.

The Death Series obviously centers on the anthropomorphic personification Death and his adventures. Also amazing. Also touching and tearful in parts.

Then we have the Witch series (and I would put the Tiffany Aching series in there as well), which is more fantasy feeling, and the Industrial Revolution series, for anyone who loves that kind of time period, and the few standalone stories. In my opinion, you could start either at the beginning with the Wizards or at the beginning of one of the character series or go chronologically.

Really, there’s no wrong way to read the Discworld.

My Favorite Quotes

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need…fantasies to make life bearable.”

REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.

“Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—”

YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.

“So we can believe the big ones?”

YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.

“They’re not the same at all!”

YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME…SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.

“Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what’s the point—”

MY POINT EXACTLY.  

– Susan and Death, The Hogfather

 

Fear is a strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.

– Small Gods

 

There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: this glass is half full. And then there are those who say: this glass is half empty.The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: ‘What’s up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don’t think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass! And at the other end of the bar the world is full of the other type of person, who has a broken glass, or a glass that has been carefully knocked over (usually by one of the people calling for a larger glass), or who had no glass at all, because they were at the back of the crowd and had failed to catch the barman’s eye.

– The Truth

 

“The secret is not to dream,” she whispered. “The secret is to wake up. Waking up is harder. I have woken up and I am real. I know where I come from and I know where I’m going. You cannot fool me anymore. Or touch me. Or anything that is mine.”

– Tiffany Aching, The Wee Free Men

 

I believe in freedom, Mr. Lipwig. Not many people do, although they will, of course, protest otherwise. And no practical definition of freedom would be complete without the freedom to take the consequences. Indeed, it is the freedom upon which all the others are based.

– Vetinari, Going Postal

 

Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving. 

― A Hat Full of Sky

 

And Tiffany knew that if a witch started thinking of anyone as “just” anything, that would be the first step on a well-worn path that could lead to, oh, to poisoned apples, spinning wheels, and a too-small stove… and to pain, and terror, and horror and the darkness.

― The Shepherd’s Crown

 

Esme Weatherwax hadn’t done nice. She’d done what was needed.

― The Shepherd’s Crown

 

HUMAN BEINGS MAKE LIFE SO INTERESTING. DO YOU KNOW, THAT IN A UNIVERSE SO FULL OF WONDERS, THEY HAVE MANAGED TO INVENT BOREDOM.

― Death, The Hogfather

 

“Now if I’d seen him, really there, really alive, it’d be in me like a fever. If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, who watched ’em like a father and cared for ’em like a mother . . . well, you wouldn’t catch me saying things like ‘there are two sides to every question’ and ‘we must respect other people’s beliefs.’ You wouldn’t find me being gen’rally nice in the hope that it’d all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgivin’ sword. And I did say burnin’, Mister Oats, ‘cos that’s what it’d be. You say that you people don’t burn folk and sacrifice people anymore, but that’s what true faith would mean, y’see. Sacrificin’ your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin’ the truth of it, workin’ for it, breathin’ the soul of it . . . That’s religion. Anything else is . . . is just bein’ nice. And just a way of keepin’ in touch with the neighbors. Anyway, that’s what I’d be, if I really believed. And I don’t think that’s fashionable right now, ‘cos it seems that if you sees evil you have to wring you rhands and say ‘oh deary me, we must debate this.’ That my two penn’orth, Mister Oats.”

― Granny Weatherwax, Carpe Jugulum

There you have it. A review/open love letter to my favorite series. I keep trying to get people to read it. I haven’t met many who have, and I think most people hear 41 novels and turn a bit green thinking they have to read ALL of them or none.

But if you have read it, how has it impacted you?

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Blue Blood: Chapter 1

Link to Prologue

Bronwyn awoke all at once, startled into consciousness. She lay still, not opening her eyes, running the dream through her mind. It had been so clear, almost like it had happened yesterday. But she had been what, ten at the time? So Angie must have been…seven. And the dream had certainly turned dark at the end. As far as she remembered, after the fairy ring nonsense, they had just walked home, and forgotten all about it.

She shifted, and felt something stick painfully into her back. Startled, her eyes popped open, and then her whole body froze as she looked up into an unfamiliar sight.

She was not lying in bed, safe in her room at home. Gazing upwards, all she could see were branches and waving green leaves that stretched far above until they ended in a canopy. Sunlight was streaming through, but only dimly.

Perhaps it was still a dream. But it didn’t seem that way. It was easy enough to tell when you’re awake for real. She shifted again, trying to get away from the root or rock poking into her, and felt around with her hands. Only then did she realize that her hands were sticky. Confused, she turned her head. She brought one hand up; it was red and slimy. Blood. She knew where it was from, and with that realization she sat up, her breaths coming in great gasps. Other images, like memory, like dreams, flashed into her mind, and she thrust her head between her knees, covering her head with her hands, shaking all over.

No, surely that was not real. Surely that had also been a dream…but what of the blood on her hands? It was too fuzzy to remember clearly. Slowly, she regained control of her breathing. It had been dark when she entered the woods, but now it was daylight. She must have been out for hours.

But how had she come to the woods? Now that she thought about it, she didn’t actually recall entering them. Did she? And what woods were they? Standing now, she looked around, brushing her hands on her jeans without looking at them, trying to get the congealing blood off. As she did so, she felt dread creep over her. Something about her surroundings sent cold fingers of fear down her spine. As she looked about, she saw strange herbs and bushes she had never seen before, and the tree next to her had unfamiliar bark. At its base was a clump of red flowers, and she felt her heart leap into her throat, thinking of pimpernel, and her sister lying on the ground…but no, they weren’t pimpernel.

Wondering what on earth was happening, she took a step forward, her slick boots slipping on the leaves. Slipping? She looked down at them, feeling within that the socks were wet. Soaked, even, and there was a small puddle where water had leaked out while she was on the ground. But how had they gotten wet? There were no ponds around her, and the ground elsewhere was completely dry. She looked around…

“Who the rutting hell are you?” Said a shocked and angry voice behind her.

Bronwyn turned sharply and faced a sword tip. The sword was in the hand of the biggest man Bronwyn had ever seen. She looked up and up into his face, dark, lined, and furious. And scared, if she saw rightly.

“Uh, what?” She said blankly. Her voice scratched and hurt, as if it hadn’t been used in ages. She felt sweat begin to bead on her temples.

“Where did you come from?” The man said, taking a step closer, the sword tip coming nearer Bronwyn’s heart. It was shaking ever so slightly, and this confused her even more.

“I…I came from Glynneath,” she said quickly, “I was asleep. I must have sleep-walked here, but I don’t know…where here is.”

“Glynneath?” The man repeated, looking more frightened now. “What country? What kingdom?”

“Kingdom?” Bronwyn said, the game of fear lobbying back and forth. “Glynneath, Wales, United Kingdom of Great Britain.”

At the words “Great Britain,” the man gave a mighty shudder, and his sword tip dropped for a moment. Then he put a hand to his eyes, and the tip righted and did not shake.

“I see. And your name?”

“Bronwyn Hughes.”

“Well, Lady Bronwyn, you need to come with me. You’re far from home now, and there’s nothing but these woods for miles. Can you ride a horse?”

Bronwyn nodded, and the man looked relieved.

“Good. Did anything else come with you?”

Bronwyn looked around vaguely, not really sure what to look for. She didn’t register the oddity of his question, but shook her head and followed him into the woods.

She watched him as they walked; he walked lightly for a man so large, but he had put his sword back in the scabbard strapped at his side.

“Who are you?” She asked finally, deciding it couldn’t hurt.

“Brendan. I’m a King’s Hand.” As though that explained it.

“Which king?”

“Not yours. I know you have questions, but I’m not in a position to answer anything. Mostly because I don’t know, so you’ll just have to wait.”

Bronwyn was silent, and after a moment more Brendan turned to look at her. He seemed a little sheepish, but she looked back steadily and he nodded. She knew it was foolish to follow a stranger, and a man at that, but what else was she to do? Whether she was in her land or not, she was lost in unfamiliar woods, that stretched for miles, he had said, so what else…what else?

They walked for an hour at least, through trees that never changed. Bronwyn stared around her as she did, and what she saw did not lessen her fright or confusion. The plants were all wrong; shapes similar to the ones of her home were the wrong color or were too many. The right flowers grew on the wrong stems, the heights were all off, and the smells of the more pungent were totally foreign.

Her heart was beating rapidly, her stomach in knots, her palms sweaty despite the cool air. Being familiar with fairy tales, especially the old Welsh folklore, gave her a script to follow in this situation – she had been spirited away, or taken, or some such nonsense, into another land – but her rational 21st century mind rebelled against this. It could not be true. It would not.

Surely she had been drugged and kidnapped by normal people, or had sleep-walked into a far region, though that seemed less likely.

Or, and this was the most terrifying idea – she had simply gone mad, and entered a world of mind. This thought made her pause, and stumble, and the big man, Brendan of the King’s Hand, looked back at her. She shook her head, fearful that he would offer her help. She didn’t want him to notice the blood on her hands. As they had been walking, she had been scratching it off bit by bit, but it was now caked around her fingernails, and her sleeve cuffs were stained at the tips.

At last they came out of the clearing, and the bright sunshine and air did much to clear Bronwyn’s head. She breathed deeply, facing the strange hills and unknown rivers below, for they had come out at the top of a shallow valley, and a road to their left curved down between the hills and went far west, into the sun now setting.

“We should ride fast,” said Brendan, eyeing the sun.

“Is there danger?” Bronwyn asked quickly, thinking of every story where darkness heralds evil.

Brendan shrugged. “Not especially. But it’ll take a few hours to reach the city and I don’t want to camp out here, do you?”

Bronwyn shook her head before noticing the obvious discrepancy.

“But where’s your horse?”

Brendan grunted and jerked his head towards the road. Bronwyn could see then, just at the side of the road, a horse waiting patiently, it’s bridle connected to a weight on the ground.

It swished its tail idly as they approached, its ears pricking, but otherwise not seeming perturbed at the wait. Brendan scooped up the weight before helping Bronwyn mount, then swung himself up behind her. In this position, his height and breadth was apparent, for Bronwyn, of fairly average build, sat with her head squarely in the middle of his chest.

As they set off down the road, Bronwyn continued to look around, though the unfamiliar landscape did nothing to ease her nerves.

“Why did you leave your horse and come into the woods? I only ask in case you had reason to look for me there, or if you came on me by chance.”

“I wasn’t looking for you, no. But be glad it was me who found you.”

“Who else might have? Bandits?”

“Of a kind. Gangsters, most likely, or weirdos living in the woods. You shouldn’t wander  through them if you’re unarmed.”

Bronwyn didn’t respond. That didn’t seem too ominous – she’d given pretty much the same advice to her sister the first time they’d gone together to harvest herbs.

The landscape did not change much as they continued west; and as the sun set it was difficult to distinguish what they were passing or what lay ahead. Bronwyn was glad, when darkness crept up, of Brendan’s large, solid chest behind her. Whether by magic or madness, she was grateful not to be alone in a new land.

The night had fallen fully for some time before the path leveled out at last, and Brendan nudged her arm.

“You can see the city walls now. See the torches?”

Bronwyn squinted. Fog had fallen with the night, but she could vaguely make out lights shimmering through the mist; flickering and shifting like so many fireflies.

“How much longer now?” She asked. Her legs were aching, and she was starving.

“Two hours. But once we arrive, someone will need to speak with you. And they won’t trust you as easily as I did.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t actually spear you, did I?” He had a point.

“Why didn’t you then?” And then she had a thought. “Am I not the first to come this way?”

Brendan didn’t reply, which told her everything she needed to know. Well, she wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or not.

“I would tell you not to worry, but, well, I can’t guarantee a warm welcome.”

Bronwyn nodded. “Right.”

After that they did not speak. Bronwyn withstood her aching legs and empty stomach, but she could not hold back the sigh of relief when they at last approached the high wall of the city. As they came near, she saw it stretched some fifty or sixty feet in the air, and was made of large white stones. Windows were cut along at three levels, indicating passages at those heights. At the top the were battlements, and between she could see figures in light colored cloaks passing behind large gas lanterns. Gas, not electric. Excellent.

Brendan spoke to the armored guard wielding a wicked looking spear. The guard stared at her around Brendan’s shoulder, as he could not see over it, but grimaced at length and let them pass. Bronwyn avoided his gaze as they trotted through the smaller one-man gate, and flinched when it closed with a bang behind them.

They passed through what looked to be a market courtyard. Empty stalls were pushed back up against the wide walls, but she could make out their brightly striped awnings even in the darkness.

The mist had turned to fine drizzle. Bronwyn could feel her hair curling upwards, and began to shiver. As they passed more houses, most dark, Brendan drew up his cloak and put it around her. She clutched it to her, and fought the fear that was now rising steadily. Soon they would arrive, and soon she would be questioned about things she had no idea of. Perhaps she might find answers, and go home, or be imprisoned forever in an unknown place.

The city was massive, and it took them at least another half hour to come to the center. Here a large hill sat, overlooking the outlying regions, and on its summit was a great house. It should have been a castle, but without towers and battlements of its own, it resembled more an oversized mansion. But it was obviously the seat of power, for it was walled as well, and guards in more resplendent armor barred the gate.

They bowed to Brendan, but looked at Bronwyn and did not lower their spear.

“A visitor,” Brendan said shortly, who was a King’s Hand.

“It’s late for visitors, Brendan.”

“I was in the Argan, Perth. He has special reason to see this visitor, anyway. Don’t be a dick.”

Perth smirked, but they raised their weapons and the gate opened from within, and they went through.

The cloak had kept most of the rain from them, but Bronwyn’s hair was a mess, and now she would be meeting…someone.

“I’m going to see the King?” She hazarded. Brendan grunted.

“No, you’ll see the First Prince, Dominic. The King is away.”

Well, a First Prince. As if that was better.

They rode through the gates and into a vast courtyard, at the end of which was a stable. Bronwyn could smell the manure and hay, and the smell was oddly comforting. Something so prosaic seemed to ground her leaping heart, and she took a deep breath that was almost steady. Brendan helped her down before him, and she leaned over, thumping her legs to give them some feeling. Brendan returned from giving his horse to the stable hand, and she followed him into the castle through a side door. The main gate was around the corner, but Bronwyn was glad they opted not to be noticeable.

It was about this point that Bronwyn made a concerted effort to stop caring about what happened to her. Always in life she had feared death, as anyone would, for it would put a stop to her potential future plans. It wasn’t that she had a great life, or anything worth saving, but that her life might get better kept her hoping, and that the hope might be crushed was what frightened her.

But she had passed into some other life, a life that was impossible to predict. And whether she lived or died now seemed to be something apart from her, that didn’t matter. And somehow, wouldn’t count. She had a strange suspicion that if she died in this world, for she was now utterly convinced that she was indeed in another world, she might wake up in hers again. She was in a situation where only a story script could explain what was happening to her, and stories never ended in the main character’s death, did they?

So as she walked, her nerves loosened, and her back straightened, and if Brendan noticed the sudden gleam in her eyes and the slacking of her mouth, he didn’t comment.

Next Chapter>> Coming Soon!

Blue Blood Prologue

“Round, round, round we say,
Come the imps,
Come the fae.

Blue blood is finer,
But red blood is thick,
Best hop in your bed,
And to sleep be quick!”

The thwack-thwack of the rope punctuated the rhyme as the two girls breathlessly jumped together. Angie held on to her older sister’s waist as Bronwyn drew the rope around them, hopping in time to the beats of the old song.

They nearly got through it twice before Angie caught her heel on the rope, and they tumbled down, laughing. Angie bolted upright at once, but Bronwyn lay on the ground, leaves tickling her neck, and stared up at the canopy above her. Sunlight winked down, dazzling her eyes, and she sat up.

“Let’s play something else,” Angie said, kicking over a stone near them.

Bronwyn tugged the jump rope from under her and stood. “Like what?”

Angie considered, tugging on the ends of her fiery red hair, her dark eyes wandering around as she thought. “Explorer? We’ve never been all the way down this path. Let’s see what’s there.”

Bronwyn looked nervously down the path Angie was talking about. The forest of Glynneath wasn’t dangerous, at least, no more dangerous than any other forest, which is to say, probably a lot for unwary children, but she didn’t want to admit that her beloved forest ever scared her.

“Alright,” she said, looping the jump rope over her arm. “Just until it gets dark. We don’t want to get lost.”

Angie rolled her eyes as they started off. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? Afraid the old devils and imps will come get you? Like in the song?”

Bronwyn paled. She was already pale, and dark-haired, so unlike Angie with her freckles and red hair, whose moods were so easy to tell. No, Bronwyn burned white, and Angie burned red.

“I’m not afraid,” she said, hitting the jump rope on the ground. “But we could get lost. So there.”

“We won’t,” said Angie assuredly, walking forward and swinging her arms hugely in a display of bravado. “And if we do meet any demons, we can just play with them until they go away. They like to play.”

“They like to play and then eat people,” Bronwyn said under her breath as she followed, thinking of the dark and menacing fairy tales they had at home. The stories had always frightened her, but nobody else at school seemed to know the stories. All of their fairy stories were silly, light things, with fairies as little women in pretty dresses, or pixie-type creatures that could only do small mischief.

She shuddered as she thought of the fairies of her stories; the dark red fae, evil, selfish, and full of mischief, of the kind that involved blood and bone. There were other stories too, of blue fairies who were taller and more kind, who fought the red fairies, but were too weak. In every story, the red fae won. Bronwyn hated those stories. She wished she had never read them. Especially now, as they walked deeper into the woods, the trees becoming thicker and denser, so the light was dim, and she thought she saw grinning faces in the gloom between the trunks.

“Let’s go back,” she said to Angie, almost whispering, her heart beating fast, and her hand slick with sweat around the jump rope.

“Not yet,” Angie hissed back, but Bronwyn could see her face was pale too. She was as unnerved as Bronwyn.

“Look!” Angie cried suddenly, stopping so abruptly Bronwyn ran into her.

“What?” Bronwyn said irritably, following Angie’s pointing hand with her eyes. Bronwyn felt her breath catch as she saw what Angie was pointing at.

Ahead of them, in a small clearing in the trees, was a large ring of mushrooms.

“A fairy ring,” Angie breathed, her excitement evident.

“We should go back,” Bronwyn said at once, clutching at Angie’s sleeve. “Angie, come on. We should go.”

“Nonsense,” Angie said at once, shaking Bronwyn off and stepping nearer. “We should set up a table and chairs for them?”

“What?” Bronwyn said, astonished. “Set up a- are you crazy? Why?”

“What if they come while we’re here? Wouldn’t it be fun?”

Bronwyn stared at her sister. She thought, dazedly, if Angie had ever read those fairy stories she had, where no fairy was good, and some were very, very bad.

But Angie was already looking about for small stones, and Bronwyn could only watch as she gathered up an armful and dumped them into the ring, then sat down, right in the middle, to arrange them.

“Aren’t you going to help?” Angie said, looking over her shoulder.

Bronwyn shook her head, frozen in place, staring as Angie shrugged and went back to work. Angie had found several rocks that could serve as chairs, and piled smaller ones on top for seat backs. Then she took a flat one she had found, a large white stone, and set it on four small rocks for a table.

“There,” Angie said, standing and brushing her hands on her knees. She came to stand beside Bronwyn, looking down at her work. “Now they should come.”

“Well let’s not hang around to see,” Bronwyn said, her heart still jumping about like a scared rabbit in her chest. “It’s getting dark anyway. Let’s go, Angie. We can-” she cast around wildly for something that would convince Angie to leave. “We can come back tomorrow and check. I doubt the fairies will come right now while we’re here. They’re shy. Let’s check back tomorrow, hm?”

Angie considered for a moment before nodding. “Good idea. Let me just take this flower.”

She bent down to pick a small bunch of red flowers, and Bronwyn felt her heart, so rapidly beating before, stop. The flowers were Anagallis arvensis, Scarlet Pimpernel, which did not open in forests where no sun shone down. Bronwyn loved plants and knew this. So how on earth were these red flowers blooming so brightly here? She looked around and saw many more, fanning out around them, their faces all pointing to the two girls.

Bronwyn turned right around to look down the path, and red faces looked back at her as far as she could see.

“Angie,” she whispered, looking down the path, “put those back. Don’ take them. I think-”

She cut off as a loud thump sounded behind her. Terrified at what she might see, Bronwyn turned slowly, and let out a high scream as she saw Angie lying on the ground.

Her hand was still clenched around the bunch of pimpernel, the faces of which were turned to Bronwyn. Angie’s eyes were open, as was her mouth, but her eyes looked all wrong, too dark, almost black, and out of her mouth was sprouting more pimpernel. The flowers spread, and grew, racing along her sister’s body, tiny green shoots reaching for her…