It had started with The Goode Childe's Booke of Faerie Tales. Actually, it had probably started with a lot of things, but the stories most of all.
   Her mother had read them to her when she was little, and then she'd read them to herself. And all the stories had, somewhere, the witch. The wicked old witch.
   And Tiffany had thought: Where's the evidence?
   The stories never said why she was wicked. It was enough to be an old woman, enough to be all alone, enough to look strange because you had no teeth. It was enough to be called a witch.
   If it came to that, the book never gave you the evidence of anything. It talked about 'a handsome prince' ... was he really, or was it just because he was a prince that people called him handsome? As for 'a girl who was as beautiful as the day was long' ... well, which day? In midwinter it hardly ever got light! The stories didn't want you to think, they just wanted you to believe what you were told...

Tiffany Aching is eight years old. She lives with her sheep-farming parents, her sisters and her younger brother on a farm on the Chalk. This wold, however, is located on the discworld, not the Earth we know. And strange things are starting to happen. Tiffany reads the dictionary a lot (no one ever told her not to) and she can best describe it as a "sussurration". A blurring of the world. Monsters are breaking through. The Queen of the Fairies has stolen her brother (and even though Wentworth is always sticky and cares only about sweets, usually that are 100% artificial additive, he's still her brother.) She's really mad now. Armed with a good solid frying-pan, her late grandmother's book Diseases of the Sheep [usually marked "This don't work. A spoonful of turpentine do"] . . . oh, and the Nac Mac Feegle, the most dangerous and lawless fighting folk to ever be thrown out of Fairyland for being "pished" at two in the afternoon. They say this means "tired", but nobody believes them.

   And she was real. Cheese was real. Somewhere not far away was a world of green turf under a blue sky, and that was real.
The Nac Mac Feegle were real, and once again she wished they were here. There was something about the way they shouted 'Crivens!' and attacked everything in sight that was so very comforting.

Imagine if you will a whole tribe of tiny blue Scottish bandits, immensely strong and with a penchant for fightin', drinkin' and thievin'. Six inches high and with a deep desire for Special Sheep Liniment (read: "whisky"), they can get into and out of anything, usually as a large round ball of feet, fists and Feegles. They fight eachother when there's no one else, ye ken. They aren't afraid of very big enemies; the bigger they are, the more there is to hit, the harder it is to miss. Their favourite tactic is grabbing something by the ears and nutting it with their hard little heads right between the eyes. Then it invariably becomes kebab. Wolves, foxes and even the Headless Horseman's horse are targets.

   'Why're we stopping? Why're we stopping here? We've gotta catch her!
   'Got to wait for Hamish, mistress,' said Rob Anybody.
   'Why? Who's Hamish?'
   'He might have the knowin' of where the Quin went with your wee laddie,' said Rob Anybody soothingly. 'We canna just rush in, ye ken.'
   A big, bearded Feegle raised his hand. 'Point o' order, Big Man. Ye can just rush in. We always just rush in.'
   'Aye, Big Yan. Point well made. But ye gotta know where ye're gonna just rush in. Ye canna just rush in anywhere. It looks bad, havin' to rush oout again straight awa'.'

Tiffany isn't at all sure what "crivens" actually means, but she's sure it's really a swearword. She meets the Feegles (sounds like a camp horror movie to me) when they're out "lookin' for the hag", meaning the witch, of the Chalk. Granny Aching's kin seems to have been the only criterion. The sounds of Feegles going bump in the night in your bedroom must be something to be heard to be believed - especially when they find the doll's house and start fighting the (usually terribly maimed) inhabitants thereof. And of course, when she's met them all, she has to take them along when she enters Fairyland (much, much more terrifying than it sounds) to try to reclaim Wentworth, armed with the aforesaid frying pan. This could get messy. . . Werehounds, waspish fairies and dromes included.

   Unfortunately, since the pictsies were very individualistic, each one had his own cry and Tiffany could only make out a few over the din:
   'They can tak' oour lives but they canna tak' oour troousers!'
   'Bang went saxpence!'
   'Ye'll tak' the high road an' I'll tak' your wallet!'
   'There can only be one t'ousand!'
   'Ach, stick it up yer trakkans!'
   ... but the voices gradually came together in one roar that shook the walls:
   Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willnae be fooled again!"

"Dromes", in fact, are strange creatures which can enter and control dreams - and the unwary walking into their dream-nets can be stuck there for the rest of their short lives, dreaming dreams for the drome and finally becoming food for it. The Queen has dromes as guards in her world; unfortunately she also has nightmares at her command. It wont be easy, and Tiffany is determined. She has to get back in time to make the next batch of cheese.