A Hat Full Of Sky

Chapter Eight The Secret Land

It’s bad enough being dead. Waking up and seeing a Nac Mac Feegle standing on your chest and peering intently at you from an inch away only makes things worse.

Miss Level groaned. It felt as though she was lying on the floor.

‘Ach, this one’s alive, right enough,’ said the Feegle. ‘Told yez! That’s a weasel skull ye owe me!’

Miss Level blinked one set of eyes, and then froze in horror.

‘What happened to me?’ she whispered.

The Feegle in front of her was replaced by the face of Rob Anybody. It was not an improvement.

‘How many fingers am I holdin’ up?’ he said.

‘Five,’ whispered Miss Level.

‘Am I? Ah, well, ye could be right, ye’d have the knowin’ o’ the countin’,’ said Rob, lowering his hand. ‘Ye’ve had a wee bittie accident, ye ken. You’re a wee bittie dead.’

Miss Level’s head slumped back. Through the mist of something that wasn’t exactly pain, she heard Rob Anybody say to someone she couldn’t see:

‘Hey, I wuz breakin’ it tae her gently! I did say “wee bittie” twice, right?’

‘It’s as though part of me is… a long way off,’ murmured Miss Level.

‘Aye, you’re aboot right there,’ said Rob, champion of the bedside manner.

Some memories bobbed to the surface of the thick soup in Miss Level’s mind.

‘Tiffany killed me, didn’t she,’ she said. ‘I remember seeing that black figure turn round and her expression was horrible—’

‘That wuz the hiver,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘That was no’ Tiffany! She was fightin’ it! She still is, inside! But it didnae remember you ha’ two bodies! We got tae help her, mistress!’

Miss Level pushed herself upright. It wasn’t pain she felt, but it was the… ghost of pain.

‘How did I die?’ she said, weakly.

‘There was, like, an explosion, an’ smoke an’ that,’ said Rob. ‘Not messy, really.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a small mercy, anyway,’ said Miss Level, sagging back.

‘Aye, there was just this, like, big purple cloud o’, like, dust,’ said Daft Wullie.

‘Where’s my… I can’t feel… where’s my other body?’

‘Aye, that was what got blown up in that big cloud, right enough,’ said Rob. ‘Good job ye has a spare, eh?’

‘She’s all mithered in her heid,’ whispered Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘Take it gently, eh?’

‘How do you manage, only seeing one side of things?’ said Miss Level dreamily to the world in general. ‘How will I get everything done with only one pair of hands and feet? Being in just one place all the time… how do people manage? It’s impossible…’

She shut her eyes.

‘Mistress Level, we need ye!’ shouted Rob Anybody into her ear.

‘Need, need, need,’ murmured Miss Level. ‘Everyone needs a witch. No one cares if a witch needs. Giving and giving always… a fairy godmother never gets a wish, let me tell you…’

‘Mistress Level!’ Rob screamed. ‘Ye cannae pass oot on us noo!’

‘I’m weary,’ whispered Miss Level. ‘I’m very, very pished.’

‘Mistress Level!’ Rob Anybody yelled. ‘The big wee hag is lying on the floor like a dead person, but she’s cold as ice and sweatin’ like a horse! She’s fightin’ the beast inside her, mistress! An’ she’s losin’!’ Rob peered into Miss Level’s face, and shook his head. ‘Auchtahelweit! She’s swooned! C’mon, lads, let’s move her!’

Like many small creatures, Feegles are immensely strong for their size. It still took ten of them to carry Miss Level up the narrow stairs without banging her head more than necessary, although they did use her feet to push open the door to Tiffany’s room.

Tiffany lay on the floor. Sometimes a muscle twitched.

Miss Level was propped up like a doll.

‘How’re we gonna bring the big hag roound?’ said Big Yan.

‘I heard where ye has to put someone’s heid between their legs,’ said Rob, doubtfully.

Daft Wullie sighed, and drew his sword. ‘Sounds a wee bit drastic tae me,’ he said, ‘but if someone will help me hold her steady—’

Miss Level opened her eyes, which was just as well. She focused unsteadily on the Feegles and smiled a strange, happy little smile.

‘Ooo, fairies!’ she mumbled.

‘Ach, noo she’s ramblin’,’ said Rob Anybody.

‘No, she means fairies like bigjobs think they are,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘Tiny wee tinkly creatures that live in flowers an’ fly aroound cuddlin’ butterflies an’ that.’

‘What? Have they no’ seen real fairies? They’re worse’n wasps!’ said Big Yan.

‘We havnae got time for this!’ snapped Rob Anybody. He jumped onto Miss Level’s knee.

‘Aye, ma’am, we’s fairies from the land o’—’ He stopped and looked imploringly at Billy.

‘Tinkle?’ Billy suggested.

‘Aye, the land o’ Tinkle, ye ken, and we found this puir wee—’

‘—princess,’ said Billy.

‘Aye, princess, who’s been attacked by a bunch o’ scunners—’

‘—wicked goblins,’ said Billy.

‘—yeah, wicked goblins, right, an’ she’s in a bad way, so we wuz wonderin’ if ye could kinda tell us how tae look after her—’

‘—until the handsome prince turns up on a big white horse wi’ curtains roound it an’ wakes her with a magical kiss,’ said Billy.

Rob gave him a desperate look, and turned back to the bemused Miss Level.

‘Aye, what ma friend Fairy Billy just said,’ he managed.

Miss Level tried to focus. ‘You’re very ugly for fairies,’ she said.

‘Aye, well, the ones you gen’rally see are for the pretty flowers, ye ken,’ said Rob Anybody, inventing desperately. ‘We’re more for the stingin’ nettles and bindweed an’ Old Man’s Troosers an’ thistles, OK? It wouldna be fair for only the bonny flowers tae have fairies noo, would it? It’d prob’ly be against the law, eh? Noo, can ye please help us wi’ this princess here before them scunners—’

‘—wicked goblins—’ said Billy.

‘Aye, before they come back,’ said Rob.

Panting, he watched Miss Level’s face. There seemed to be a certain amount of thinking going on.

‘Is her pulse rapid?’ murmured Miss Level. ‘You say her skin is cold but she’s sweating? Is she breathing rapidly? It sounds like shock. Keep her warm, raise her legs. Watch her carefully. Try to remove… the cause…’ Her head slumped.

Rob turned to Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘A horse wi’ curtains roond it?’ he said. ‘Where did ye get all that blethers?’

‘There’s a big hoose near the Long Lake an’ they read stories tae their wee bairn an’ I go along an’ listen fra’ a mousehole,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘One day I snuck in and looked at the pichurs, and there was bigjobs called k’nits wi’ shields and armour and horses wi’ curtains—’

‘Weel, it worked, blethers though it be,’ said Rob Anybody. He looked at Tiffany. She was lying down, so he was about as high as her chin. It was like walking around a small hill. ‘Crivens, it does me nae guid at all ta see the puir wee thing like this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘C’mon, lads, get that cover off the bed and put that cushion under her feet.’

‘Er, Rob?’ said Daft Wullie.

‘Aye?’ Rob was staring up at the unconscious riffany.

‘How are we goin’ taw get inta her heid? There’s got tae be somethin’ tae guide us in.’

‘Aye, Wullie, an’ I ken whut it’s gonna be, ‘cuz I’ve been usin’ mah heid for thinkin’!’ said Rob. ‘Ye’ve seen the big wee hag often enough, right? Well, see this necklet?’

He reached up. The silver horse had slipped around Tiffany’s neck as she lay on the floor. It hung there, amid the amulets and dark glitter.

‘Aye?’ said Wullie.

‘It was a present from that son o’ the Baron,’ said Rob. ‘An’ she’s kept it. She’s tried tae turn hersel’ intae some kind of creature o’ the night, but somethin’ made her keep this. It’ll be in her heid, too. ‘Tis important tae her. All we need tae do is frannit a wheelstone on it and it’ll tak’ us right where she is.’8

Daft Wullie scratched his head. ‘But I thought she thought he was just a big pile of jobbies?’ he said. ‘I seen her oot walkin’, an’ when he comes ridin’ past she sticks her nose in th’ air and looks the other wa’. In fact, sometimes I seen her wait aroond a full five-and-twenty minutes for him tae come past, just so’s she can do that.’

‘Ah, weel, no man kens the workin’s o’ the female mind,’ said Rob Anybody loftily. ‘We’ll follow the Horse.’

From Fairies and How to Avoid Them by Miss Perspicacia Tick:

No one knows exactly how the Nac Mac Feegle step from one world to another. Those who have seen Feegles actually travel this way say that they apparently throw back their shoulders and thrust out one leg straight ahead of them. Then they wiggle their foot and are gone. This is known as ‘the crawstep’, and the only comment on the subject by a Feegle is ‘It’s all in the ankle movement, ye ken.’ They appear to be able to travel magically between worlds of all kinds but not within a world. For this purpose, they assure people, they have ‘feets’.

The sky was black, even though the sun was high. It hung at just past noon, lighting the landscape as brilliantly as a hot summer day, but the sky was midnight black, shorn of stars.

This was the landscape of Tiffany Aching’s mind.

The Feegles looked around them. There seemed to be downland underfoot, rolling and green.

‘She tells the land what it is. The land tells her who she is,’ whispered Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘She really does hold the soul o’ the land in her heid…’

‘Aye, so ‘tis,’ muttered Rob Anybody. ‘But there’s nae creatures, ye ken. Nae ships. Nae burdies.’

‘Mebbe… mebbe somethin’s scared them awa’?’ said Daft Wullie.

There was, indeed, no life. Stillness and silence ruled here. In fact Tiffany, who cared a lot about getting words right, would have said it was a hush, which is not the same as silence. A hush is what you get in cathedrals at midnight.

‘OK, lads,’ Rob Anybody whispered. ‘We dinnae ken what we’re goin’ tae find, so ye tread as light as e’er foot can fall, unnerstan’? Let’s find the big wee hag.’

They nodded, and stepped forward like ghosts.

The land rose slightly ahead of them, to some kind of earthworks. They advanced on it carefully, wary of ambush, but nothing stopped them as they climbed two long mounds in the turf which made a sort of cross.

‘Man-made,’ said Big Yan, when they reached the top. ‘Just like in the old days, Rob.’ The silence sucked his speech away.

‘This is deep inside o’ the big wee hag’s head,’ said Rob Anybody, looking around warily. ‘We dinnae know whut made ‘em.’

‘I dinnae like this, Rob,’ said a Feegle. ‘It’s too quiet.’

‘Aye, Slightly Sane Georgie, it is that—’

‘You are my sunshine, my only su–’

‘Daft Wullie!’ snapped Rob, without taking his eyes off the strange landscape.

The singing stopped. ‘Aye, Rob?’ said Daft Wullie from behind him.

‘Ye ken I said I’d tell ye when ye wuz guilty o’ stupid and inna-pro-pre-ate behaviour?’

‘Aye, Rob,’ said Daft Wullie. ‘That wuz another one o’ those times, wuz it?’

‘Aye.’

They moved on again, staring around them. And still there was the hush. It was the pause before an orchestra plays, the quietness before thunder. It was as if all the small sounds of the hills had shut down to make room for one big sound to happen.

And then they found the Horse.

They’d seen it, back on the Chalk. But here it was, not carved into the hillside but spread out before them. They stared at it.

‘Awf’ly Wee Billy?’ said Rob, beckoning the young gonnagle towards him. ‘You’re a gonnagle, ye ken aboot poetry and dreams. What’s this? Why’s it up here? It shouldnae be on the top o’ the hills!’

‘Serious hiddlins, Mr Rob,’ said Billy. This is serious hiddlins. I cannae work it out yet.’

‘She knows the Chalk. Why’d she get this wrong?’

‘I’m thinkin’ aboot it, Mr Rob.’

‘You wouldnae care tae think a bit faster, would ye?’

‘Rob?’ said Big Yan, hurrying up. He’d been scouting ahead.

‘Aye?’ said Rob gloomily.

‘Ye’d better come and see this…’

On top of a round hill was a four-wheeled shepherding hut, with a curved roof and a chimney for the pot-bellied stove. Inside, the walls were covered with the yellow and blue wrappers from hundreds of packets of Jolly Sailor tobacco. There were old sacks hanging up there, and the back of the door was covered with chalk marks where Granny Aching had counted sheep and days. And there was a narrow iron bedstead, made comfortable with old fleeces and feed sacks.

‘D’ye have the unnerstandin’ of this, Awf’ly Wee Billy?’ said Rob. ‘Can ye tell us where the big wee hag is?’

The young gonnagle looked worried. ‘Er, Mister Rob, ye ken I’ve only just been made a gonnagle? I mean, I know the songs an’ a’, but I’m no’ verra experienced at this…’

‘Aye?’ said Rob Anybody. ‘An’ just how many gonnagles afore ye ha’ walked through the dreams o’ a hag?’

‘Er… none I’ve ever heard of, Mister Rob,’ Billy confessed.

‘Aye. So you already know more aboot it than any o’ them big men,’ said Rob. He gave the boy a smile. ‘Do yer best, laddie. I dinnae expect any more of you than that.’

Billy looked out of the shed door, and took a deep breath: ‘Then I’ll tell ye I think she’s hidin’ somewhere close like a hunted creature, Mr Rob. This is a wee bit o’ her memory, the place o’ her granny, the place where she’s always felt safe. I’ll tell ye I think that we’re in the soul and centre o’ her. The bit o’ her that is her. And I’m frightened for her. Frightened to mah boots.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve been watchin’ the shadows, Mr Rob,’ said Billy. ‘The sun is movin’. It’s slippin’ doon the sky.’

‘Aye, weel, that’s whut the sun does—’ Rob began.

Billy shook his head. ‘Nay, Mr Rob. Ye dinnae understand! I’m tellin’ ye that’s no’ the sun o’ the big wide world. That’s the sun o’ the soul o’ her.’

The Feegles looked at the sun, and at the shadows, then back at Billy. He’d stuck his chin out bravely but he was trembling.

‘She’ll die when night comes?’ Rob said.

‘There’s worser things than death, Mr Rob. The hiver will have her, head tae toe—’

‘That is nae gonna happen!’ shouted Rob Anybody, so suddenly that Billy backed away. ‘She’s a strong big wee lass! She fought the Quin wi’ no more than a fryin’ pan!’

Awf’ly Wee Billy swallowed. There were a lot of things he’d rather do than face Rob Anybody now. But he pressed on.

‘Sorry, Mr Rob, but I’m telling ye she had iron then, an’ she wuz on her ain turf. She’s a lang, lang way fra’ hame here. An’ it’ll squeeze this place when it finds it, leave no more room for it, and the night will come, an’—’

‘ ‘Scuse me, Rob. I ha’ an idea.’

It was Daft Wullie, twisting his hands nervously. Everyone turned to look at him.

‘Ye ha’ an idea?’ said Rob.

‘Aye, an’ if I tell youse, I dinnae want you ta’ say it’s inna-pro-pre-ate, OK, Rob?’

Rob Anybody sighed. ‘OK, Wullie, ye ha’ my word on it.’

‘Weel,’ said Wullie, his fingers knotting and unknotting. ‘What is this place if it’s not truly her ain place? What is it if not her ain turf? If she cannae fight the creature here, she cannae fight it anywhere!’

‘But it willnae come here,’ said Billy. ‘It doesnae need to. As she grows weaker, this place will fade away.’

‘Oh, crivens,’ mumbled Daft Wullie. ‘Weel, it was a good idea, right? Even if it doesnae work?’

Rob Anybody wasn’t paying any attention. He stared around the shepherding hut. My man’s got to use his heid for something other than nuttin’ folk, Jeannie had said.

‘Daft Wullie is right,’ he said quietly. ‘This is her safe place. She holds the land, she has it in her eye. The creature can ne’er touch her here. Here, she has power. But ‘twill be a jail hoose for her here unless she fights the monster. She’d be locked in here and watch her life gae doon the cludgie. She’ll look oot at the world like a pris’ner at a tiny window, and see hersel’ hated and feared. So we’ll fetch the beast in here against its will, and here it will die!’

The Feegles cheered. They weren’t sure what was going on, but they liked the sound of it.

‘How?’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy.

‘Ye had to gae and ask that, eh?’ said Rob Anybody bitterly. ‘An’ I wuz doin’ sae weel wi’ the thinkin’—’

He turned. There was a scratching noise on the door above him.

Up there, across the rows and rows of half rubbed-out markings, freshly chalked letters were appearing one by one, as if an invisible hand was writing them.

‘Worrds,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘She’s tryin’ tae tell us somethin’!’

‘Yes, they say—’ Billy began.

‘I ken weel what they say!’ snapped Rob Anybody. ‘I ha’ the knowin’ of the readin’! They say—’

He looked up again. ‘OK, they say… that’s the snake, an’ that’s the kinda like a gate letter, an’ the comb on its side, two o’ that, an’ the fat man standin’ still, an’ the snake again, and then there’s whut we calls a “space” and then there’s the letter like a saw’s teeth, and two o’ the letters that’s roound like the sun, and the letter that’s a man sittin’ doon, and onna next line we ha’… the man wi’ his arms oot, and the letter that’s you, an’ ha, the fat man again but noo he’s walkin, an’ next he’s standin’ still again, an’ next is the comb, an’ the up-an’-doon ziggy-zaggy letter, and the man’s got his arms oot, and then there’s me, and that ziggy-zaggy and we end the line with the comb again… an’ on the next line we starts wi’ the bendy hook, that’s the letter roound as the sun, them’s twa’ men sittin’ doon, there’s the letter reaching ooot tae the sky, then there’s a space ‘cos there’s nae letter, then there’s the snaky again, an’ the letter like a hoose frame, and then there’s the letter that’s me, aye, an’ another fella sitting doon, an’ another big roound letter, and, ha, oor ol’ friend, the fat man walkin’! The End!’

He stood back, hands on hips, and demanded: There! Is that readin’ I just did, or wuz it no’?’

There was a cheer from the Feegles, and some applause.

Awf’ly Wee Billy looked up at the chalked words:

SHEEP’S WOOL

TURPENTINE

JOLLY SAILOR

And then he looked at Rob Anybody’s expression.

‘Aye, aye,’ he said, ‘Ye’re doin great, Mr Rob. Sheep’s wool, turpentine and Jolly Sailor tobacco.’

‘Ach, weel, anyone can read it all in one go,’ said Rob Anybody, dismissively. ‘But youse gotta be guid to break it doon intae all the tricksie letters. And veera guid to have the knowin’ o’ the meanin’ o’ the whole.’

‘What is that?’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy.

‘The meaning, gonnagle, is that you are gonna’ go stealin’!’ There was a cheer from the rest of the Feegles. They hadn’t been keeping up very well, but they recognized that word all right.

‘An’ it’s gonna be a stealin’ tae remember!’ Rob yelled, to another cheer. ‘Daft Wullie!’

‘Aye!’

‘Ye’ll be in charge! Ye ha’ not got the brains o’ a beetle, brother o’ mine, but when it comes tae the thievin’ ye hae no equal in this wurld! Ye’ve got tae fetch turpentine and fresh ship wool and some o’ the Jolly Sailor baccy! Ye got tae get them to the big hag wi’ twa’ bodies! Tell her she must mak’ the hiver smell them, right? It’ll bring it here! And ye’d best be quick, because that sun is movin’ down the sky. Yell be stealin’ fra’ Time itself—aye? Ye have a question?’

Daft Wullie had raised a finger.

‘Point o’ order, Rob,’ he said, ‘but it was a wee bittie hurtful there for you to say I dinnae hae the brains of a beetle…’

Rob hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Aye, Daft Wullie, ye are right in whut ye say. It was unricht o’ me to say that. It was the heat o’ the moment, an’ I am full sorry for it. As I stand here before ye now, I will say: Daft Wullie, ye do hae the brains o’ a beetle, an’ I’ll fight any scunner who says different!’

Daft Wullie’s face broke into a huge smile, then crinkled into a frown. ‘But ye are the leader, Rob,’ he said.

‘No’ on this raid, Wullie. A’m staying here. I have every confidence that ye’ll be a fiiinne leader on this raid an’ not totally mess it up like ye did the last seventeen times!’

There was a general groan from the crowd.

‘Look at the sun, will ye!’ said Rob, pointing. ‘It’s moved since we’ve been talkin’! Someone’s got tae stay wi’ her! I will no’ ha’ it said we left her tae die alone! Now, get movin’, ye scunners, or feel the flat o’ my blade!’

He raised his sword and growled. They fled.

Rob Anybody laid his sword down with care, then sat on the step of the shepherding hut to watch the sun.

After a while, he was aware of something else…

Hamish the aviator gave Miss Level’s broomstick a doubtful look. It hung a few feet above the ground and it worried him.

He hitched up the bundle on his back that contained his parachute, although it was technically the ‘paradrawers’, since it was made of string and an old pair of Tiffany’s best Sunday drawers, well washed. They still had flowers on, but there was nothing like them for getting a Feegle safely to the ground. He had a feeling it (or they) were going to be needed.

‘It’s no’ got feathers,’ he complained.

‘Look, we dinnae ha’ time to argue!’ said Daft Wullie. ‘We’re in a hurry, ye ken, an’ you’re the only one who knows how tae fly!’

‘A broomstick isnae flyin’,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s magic. It hasnae any wings! I dinnae ken that stuff!’

But Big Yan had already thrown a piece of string over the bristle end of the stick and was climbing up. Other Feegles followed.

‘Besides, how do they steer these things?’ Hamish went on.

‘Weel, how do ye do it with wi’ the birdies?’ Daft Wullie demanded.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Ye just shift your weight, but—’

‘Ach, ye’ll learn as we go,’ said Wullie. ‘Flying can-nae be that difficult. Even ducks can do it, and they have nae brains at a’.’

And there was really no point in arguing, which is why, a few minutes later, Hamish inched his way along the stick’s handle. The rest of the Feegles clung to the bristles at the other end, chattering.

Firmly tied to the bristles was a bundle of what looked like sticks and rags, with a battered hat and the stolen beard on top of it.

At least this extra weight meant that the stick end was pointing up, towards a gap in the fruit trees. Hamish sighed, took a deep breath, pulled his goggles over his eyes and put a hand on a shiny area of stick just in front of him.

Gently, the stick began to move through the air. There was a cheer from the Feegles.

‘See? Told yez ye’d be OK,’ Daft Wullie called out. ‘But can ye no’ make it go a wee bit faster?’

Carefully, Hamish touched the shiny area again.

The stick shuddered, hung motionless for a moment, and then shot upwards trailing a noise very like:

Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

In the silent world of Tiffany’s head, Rob Anybody picked up his sword again and crept across the darkening turf.

There was something there, small but moving.

It was a tiny thorn bush, growing so fast that its twigs visibly moved. Its shadow danced on the grass.

Rob Anybody stared at it. It had to mean something. He watched it carefully. Little bush, growing…

And then he remembered what the old kelda had told them when he’d been a wee boy.

Once, the land had been all forest, heavy and dark. Then men came and cut down trees. They let the sun in. The grass grew up in the clearings. The bigjobs brought in sheep, which ate the grass, and also what grew in the grass: tree seedlings. And so the dark forests died. There hadn’t been much life in them, not once the tree trunks closed in behind you; it had been dark as the bottom of the sea in there, the leaves far above keeping out the light. Sometimes there was the crash of a branch, or the rattle and patter as acorns the squirrels had missed bounced down, from branch to branch, into the gloom. Mostly it was just hot and silent. Around the edges of the forest were the homes of many creatures. Deep inside the forest, the everlasting forest, was the home of wood.

But the turf lived in the sun, with its hundreds of grasses and flowers and birds and insects. The Nac Mac Feegle knew that better than most, being so much closer to it. What looked like a green desert at a distance was a tiny, thriving, roaring jungle…

‘Ach,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘So that’s yer game, izzit? Weel, ye’re no’ takin’ over in here too!’

He chopped at the spindly thing with his sword, and stood back.

The rustling of leaves behind him made him turn.

There were two more saplings unfolding. And a third. He looked across the grass and saw a dozen, a hundred tiny trees beginning their race for the sky.

Worried though he was, and he was worried to his boots, Rob Anybody grinned. If there’s one thing a Feegle likes, it’s knowing that wherever you strike you’re going to hit an enemy.

The sun was going down and the shadows were moving and the turf was dying.

Rob charged.

Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

What happened during the Nac Mac Feegles’ search for the right smell was remembered by several witnesses (quite apart from all the owls and bats who were left spinning in the air by a broomstick being navigated by a bunch of screaming little blue men).

One of them was Number 95, a ram owned by a not very imaginative farmer. But all he remembered was a sudden noise in the night and a draughty feeling on his back. That was about as exciting as it got for Number 95, so he went back to thinking about grass.

Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

Then there was Mildred Pusher, aged seven, who was the daughter of the farmer who owned Number 95. One day, when she’d grown up and become a grandmother, she told her grandchildren about the night she came downstairs by candlelight for a drink of water and heard the noises under the sink…

‘And there were these little voices, you see, and one said, “Ach, Wullie, you cannae drink that, look, it says ‘Poison!!’ on the bottle,” and another voice said, “Aye, gonnagle, they put that on tae frighten a man from havin’ a wee drink,” and the first voice said, “Wullie, it’s rat poison!” and the second voice said, “That’s fine, then, ‘cos I’m no’ a rat!” And then I opened the cupboard under the sink and, what do you think, it was full of fairies! And they looked at me and I looked at them and one of them said, “Hey, this is a dream you’re having, big wee girl!” and immediately they all agreed! And the first one said, “So, in this dream ye’re having, big wee girl, you wouldna mind telling us where the turpentine is, wouldya?” And so I told them it was outside in the barn, and he said, “Aye? Then we’re offski. But here’s a wee gift fra’ the fairies for a big wee girl who’s gonna go right back tae sleep!” And then they were gone!’

One of her grandchildren, who’d been listening with his mouth open, said, ‘What did they give you, Grandma?’

‘This!’ Mildred held up a silver spoon. ‘And the strange thing is, it’s just like the ones my mother had, which vanished mysteriously from the drawer the very same night! I’ve kept it safe ever since!’

This was admired by all. Then one of the grandchildren asked: ‘What were the fairies like, Grandma?’

Grandma Mildred thought about this. ‘Not as pretty as you might expect,’ she said at last. ‘But definitely more smelly. And just after they’d gone there was a sound like—’

Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

People in the King’s Legs (the owner had noticed that there were lots of inns and pubs called the King’s Head or the King’s Arms, and spotted a gap in the market) looked up when they heard the noise outside.

After a minute or two the door burst open.

‘Good night to ye, fellow bigjobs!’ roared a figure in the doorway.

The room fell horribly silent. Awkwardly, legs going in every direction, the scarecrow figure wove unsteadily towards the bar and grabbed it thankfully, hanging on as it sagged onto its knees.

‘A big huge wee drop o’ yer finest whisky, me fine fellow barman fellow,’ it said from somewhere under the hat.

‘It seems to me that you’ve already had enough to drink, friend,’ said the barman, whose hand had crept to the cudgel he kept under the bar for special customers.

‘Who’re ye calling “friend”, pal?’ roared the figure, trying to pull itself up. ‘That’s fightin’ talk, that is! And I havenae had enough to drink, pal, ‘cos if I have, why’ve I still got all this money, eh? Answer me that!’

A hand sagged into a coat pocket, came out jerkily and slammed down onto the top of the bar. Ancient gold coins rolled in every direction and a couple of silver spoons dropped out of the sleeve.

The silence of the bar became a lot deeper. Dozens of eyes watched the shiny discs as they spun off the bar and rolled across the floor.

‘An’ I want an ounce o’ Jolly Sailor baccy,’ said the figure.

‘Why, certainly, sir,’ said the barman, who had been brought up to be respectful to gold coins. He felt under the bar and his expression changed.

‘Oh. I’m sorry, sir, we’ve sold out. Very popular, Jolly Sailor. But we’ve got plenty of—’

The figure had already turned round to face the rest of the room.

‘OK, I’ll gi’e a handful o’ gold to the first scunner who gi’es me a pipeful o’ Jolly Sailor!’ it yelled.

The room erupted. Tables scraped. Chairs overturned.

The scarecrow man grabbed the first pipe and threw the coins into the air. As fights immediately broke out, he turned back to the bar and said:

‘And I’ll ha’ that wee drop o’ whisky before I go, barman. Ach, no you willnae, Big Yan! Shame on ye! Hey, youse legs can shut up right noo! A wee pint of whisky’ll do us no harm! Oh, aye? Who deid and made ye Big Man, eh? Listen, ye scunner, oor Rob is in there! Aye, and he’d have a wee drink, too!’

The customers stopped pushing one another out of the way to get at the coins, and got up to face a whole body arguing with itself.

‘Anywa’, I’m in the heid, right? The heid’s in charge. I dinnae ha’ tae listen to a bunch o’ knees! I said this wuz a bad idea, Wullie, ye ken we ha’ trouble getting oot of pubs! Well, speaking on behalf o’ the legs, we’re not gonna stand by and watch the heid get pished, thank ye so veerae much!’

To the horror of the customers the entire bottom half of the figure turned round and started to walk towards the door, causing the top half to fall forward. It gripped the edge of the bar desperately, managed to say, ‘OK! Is a deep-fried pickled egg totally oot o’ the question?’ and then the figure—

–tore itself in half. The legs staggered a few steps towards the door, and fell over.

In the shocked silence a voice from somewhere in the trousers said: ‘Crivens! Time for offski!’

The air blurred for a moment and the door slammed.

After a while one of the customers stepped forward cautiously and prodded the heap of old clothes and sticks that was all that remained of the visitor. The hat rolled off and he jumped back.

A glove that was still hanging onto the bar fell onto the floor with a thwap! that sounded very loud.

‘Well, look at it this way,’ said the barman. ‘Whatever it was, at least it’s left its pockets—’

From outside came the sound of:

Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

The broomstick hit the thatched roof of Miss Level’s cottage hard, and stuck in it. Feegles fell off, still fighting.

In a struggling, punching mass they rolled into the cottage, conducted guerrilla warfare all the way up the stairs and ended up in a head-butting, kicking heap in Tiffany’s bedroom, where those who’d been left behind to guard the sleeping girl and Miss Level joined in out of interest.

Gradually, the fighters became aware of a sound. It was the skirl of the mousepipes, cutting through the battle like a sword. Hands stopped gripping throats, fists stopped in mid-punch, kicks hovered in mid-air.

Tears ran down Awf’ly Wee Billy’s face as he played The Bonny Flowers, the saddest song in the world. It was about home, and mothers, and good times gone past, and faces no longer there. The Feegles let go of one another and stared down at their feet as the forlorn notes wound about them, speaking of betrayal and treachery and the breaking of promises—

‘Shame on ye!’ screamed Awf’ly Wee Billy, letting the pipe drop out of his mouth. ‘Shame on ye! Traitors! Betrayers! Ye shame hearth and hame! Your hag is fightin’ for her verra soul! Have ye no honour?’ He flung down the mousepipes, which wailed into silence. ‘I curse my feets that let me stand here in front o’ ye! Ye shame the verra sun shinin’ on ye! Ye shame the kelda that birthed ye! Traitors! Scuggans! What ha’ I done to be among this parcel o’ rogues? Any man here want tae fight? Then fight me! Aye, fight me! An’ I swear by the harp o’ bones I’ll tak’ him tae the deeps o’ the sea an’ then kick him tae the craters o’ the moon an’ see him ride tae the Pit o’ Heel itself on a saddle made o’ hedgehogs! I tell ye, my rage is the strength of the storm that tears mountains intae sand! Who among ye will stand agin me?’

Big Yan, who was almost three times the size of Awf’ly Wee Billy, cowered back as the little gonnagle stood in front of him. Not a Feegle would have raised a hand at that moment, for fear of his life. The rage of a gonnagle was a dreadful thing to see. A gonnagle could use words like swords.

Daft Wullie shuffled forward.

‘I can see ye’re upset, gonnagle,’ he mumbled. ‘ ‘Tis me that’s at fault, on account o’ being daft. I shoulda remembered aboout us and pubs.’

He looked so dejected that Awf’ly Wee Billy calmed down a little.

‘Very well then,’ he said, but rather coldly because you can’t lose that much anger all at once. ‘We’ll not talk aboot this again. But we will remember it, right?’ He pointed to the sleeping shape of Tiffany. ‘Now pick up that wool, and the tobacco, and the turpentine, understand? Someone tak’ the top off the turpentine bottle and pour a wee drop onto a bit o’ cloth. And no one, let me mak’ myself clear, is tae drink any of it!’

The Feegles fell over themselves to obey. There was a ripping noise as ‘the bit o’ cloth’ was obtained from the bottom of Miss Level’s dress.

‘Right,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘Daft Wullie, you tak’ all the three things and put them up on the big wee hag’s chest, where she can smell them.’

‘How can she smell them when she’s oot cold like that?’ said Wullie.

‘The nose disnae sleep,’ said the gonnagle flatly.

The three smells of the shepherding hut were laid reverentially just below Tiffany’s chin.

‘Noo we wait,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘We wait, and hope.’

It was hot in the little bedroom with the sleeping witches and a crowd of Feegles. It wasn’t long before the smells of sheep’s wool, turpentine and tobacco rose and twined and filled the air…

Tiffany’s nose twitched.

The nose is a big thinker. It’s good at memory—very good. So good that a smell can take you back in memory so hard that it hurts. The brain can’t stop it. The brain has nothing to do with it. The hiver could control brains, but it couldn’t control a stomach that threw up when it was flown on a broomstick. And it was useless at noses…

The smell of sheep’s wool, turpentine and Jolly Sailor tobacco could carry a mind away, all the way to a silent place that was warm and safe and free from harm…

The hiver opened its eyes and looked around.

‘The shepherding hut?’ it said.

It sat up. Red light shone in through the open door, and through the trunks of the saplings growing everywhere. Many of them were quite big now and cast long shadows, putting the setting sun behind bars. Around the shepherding hut, though, they had been cut down.

‘This is a trick,’ it said. ‘It won’t work. We are you. We think like you. We’re better at thinking like you than you are.’

Nothing happened.

The hiver looked like Tiffany, although here it was slightly taller because Tiffany thought she was slightly taller than she really was. It stepped out of the hut and onto the turf.

‘It’s getting late,’ it said to the silence. ‘Look at the trees! This place is dying. We don’t have to escape. Soon all this will be part of us. Everything that you really could be. You’re proud of your little piece of ground. We can remember when there were no worlds! We—you could change things with a wave of your hand! You could make things right or make things wrong, and you could decide which is which! You will never die!’

‘Then why are ye sweatin’, ye big heap o’ jobbies? Ach, what a scunner!’ said a voice behind it.

For a moment the hiver wavered. Its shape changed, many times in the fractions of a second. There were bits of scales, fins, teeth, a pointy hat, claws… and then it was Tiffany again, smiling.

‘Oh, Rob Anybody, we are glad to see you,’ it said. ‘Can you help us—?’

‘Dinnae gi’ me all that swiddle!’ shouted Rob, bouncing up and down in rage. ‘I know a hiver when I sees one! Crivens but ye’re due a kickin’!’

The hiver changed again, became a lion with teeth the size of swords and roared at him.

‘Ach, it’s like that, is it?’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Dinnae go awa’!’ He ran a few steps and vanished.

The hiver changed back to its Tiffany shape again.

‘Your little friend has gone,’ it said. ‘Come out now. Come out now. Why fear us? We are you. You won’t be like the rest, the dumb animals, the stupid kings, the greedy wizards. Together—’

Rob Anybody returned, followed by… well, everyone.

‘Ye cannae die,’ he yelled. ‘But we’ll make ye wish ye could!’

They charged.

The Feegles had the advantage in most fights because they were small and fought big enemies. If you’re small and fast you’re hard to hit. The hiver fought back by changing shape, all the time. Swords clanged on scales, heads butted fangs—it whirled across the turf, growling and screaming, calling up past shapes to counter every attack. But Feegles were hard to kill. They bounced when thrown, sprang back when trodden on and easily dodged teeth and claws. They fought—

–and the ground shook so suddenly that even the hiver lost its footing.

The shepherding hut creaked and began to settle into the turf, which opened up around it as easily as butter. The saplings trembled and began to fall over, one after the other, as if their roots were being cut under the grass.

The land… rose.

Rolling down the shifting slope, the Feegles saw the hills climbing towards the sky. What was there, what had always been there, become more plain.

Rising into the dark sky was a head, shoulders, a chest… Someone who had been lying down, growing turf, their arms and legs the hills and valleys of the downland, was sitting up. They moved with great stony slowness, millions of tons of hill shifting and creaking around them. What had looked like two long mounds in the shape of a cross became giant green arms, unfolding.

A hand with fingers longer than houses reached down, picked up the hiver and lifted it up into the air.

Far off, something thumped three times. The sound seemed to be coming from outside the world. The Feegles, turning and watching from the small hill that was one of the knees of the giant girl, ignored them.

‘She tells the land whut it is, and it tells her who she is,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy, tears running down his face. ‘I cannae write a song aboot this! I’m nae good enough!’

‘Is that the big wee hag dreamin’ she’s the hills or the hills dreamin’ they’re the big wee hag?’ said Daft Wullie.

‘Both, mebbe,’ said Rob Anybody. They watched the huge hand close and winced.

‘But ye cannae kill a hiver,’ said Daft Wullie.

‘Aye, but ye can frit it awa’,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘It’s a big wee universe oot there. If I was it, I’d no’ think o’ tryin’ her again!’

There were three more booms in the distance, louder this time.

‘I think,’ he went on, ‘that’s it’s time we were off ski.’

In Miss Level’s cottage, someone was knocking heavily on the front door. Thump. Thump. Thump.