A Hat Full Of Sky (18 page)

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 toward the bar and grabbed it thankfully, hanging on as it sagged to 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 havena had enough to drink, pal, ’cuz 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 around to face the rest of the room.

“Okay, I’ll gie 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 willna, 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, oour Rob is in there!
Aye, and he’d have a wee drink, too!
”

The customers stopped pushing one another out 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 dinna ha’ tae listen to a bunch o’ knees!
I said this wuz a bad idea, Wullie. Ye ken we ha’ trouble getting oout 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 around and started to walk toward the door, causing the top half to fall forward. It gripped the edge of the bar desperately, managed to say, “Okay! Is a deep-fried pickled egg totally oout o’ the question?” and then the figure—

—tore itself in half. The legs staggered a few steps toward 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 on to the bar fell to 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 midair.

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 honor?” 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 verrae 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 Billie 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 aboout 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 oout cold like that?” asked Wullie.

“The nose disna 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 sheeps’ 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 between 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 of 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?”

“Dinna 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. “Dinna 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 canna 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 cimbing toward 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 it.

“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 canna 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 canna kill a hiver,” said Daft Wullie.

“Aye, but ye can frit it awa’,” said Rob Anybody. “It’s a big wee universe oout 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 offski.”

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

T
iffany opened her eyes, remembered, and thought: Was that a dream, or was that real?

And the next thought was: How do I know I’m me? Suppose I’m not me but just think I’m me? How can I tell if I’m me or not? Who’s the “me” who’s asking the question? Am I thinking these thoughts? How would I know if I wasn’t?

“Dinna ask me,” said a voice by her head. “Is this one of them tricksie ones?”

It was Daft Wullie. He was sitting on her pillow.

Tiffany squinted down. She was in bed in Miss Level’s cottage. A green quilt stretched out in front of her. A quilt. Green. Not turf, not hills…but it looked like the downland from here.

“Did I say all that aloud?” she asked.

“Oh, aye.”

“Er…it did all happen, didn’t it?” said Tiffany.

“Oh, aye,” said Daft Wullie cheerfully. “The big hag o’ hags wuz up here till just noo, but she said ye probably wasna gonna wake up a monster.”

More bits of memory landed in Tiffany’s head like red-hot rocks landing on a peaceful planet.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, aye,” said Daft Wullie.

“And Miss Level?”

And this rock of memory was huge, a flaming mountain that’d make a million dinosaurs flee for their lives. Tiffany’s hands flew to her mouth.

“I killed her!” she said.

“Noo, then, ye didna—”

“I did! I felt my mind thinking it. She made me angry! I just waved my hand like this”—a dozen Nac Mac Feegle dived for cover—“and she just exploded into nothing! It was
me
! I remember!”

“Aye, but the hag o’ hags said it wuz usin’ your mind tae think with—” Daft Wullie began.

“I’ve got the memories! It was
me
, with this hand!” The Feegles who had raised their heads ducked back down again. “And…the memories I’ve got…I remember dust, turning into stars…things…the heat…blood…the taste of blood…I remember…I remember the seeme trick! Oh, no! I practically
invited
it in! I killed Miss Level!”

Shadows were closing in around her vision, and there was a ringing in her ears. Tiffany heard the door swing open, and hands picked her up as though she was as light as a bubble. She was slung over a shoulder and carried swiftly down the stairs and out into the bright morning, where she was swung down onto the ground.

“…And all of us…we killed her…take one crucible of silver…” she mumbled.

A hand slapped her sharply across the face. She stared through inner mists at the tall dark figure in front of her. A bucket handle was pressed firmly into her hand.

“Milk the goats now, Tiffany! Now, Tiffany, d’you hear! The trusting creatures look to you! They wait for you! Tiffany milks the goats. Do it, Tiffany! The hands know how, the mind
will
remember and grow stronger, Tiffany!”

She was thrust down into the milking stall and, through the mist in her head, made out the cowering shape of…of…Black Meg.

The hands remembered. They placed the pail, grasped a teat, and then, as Meg raised a leg to play the foot-in-the-bucket game, grabbed it and forced it safely back down onto the milking platform.

She worked slowly, her head full of hot fog,
letting her hands have their way. Buckets were filled and emptied, milked goats got a bucket of feed from the bin….

Sensibility Bustle was rather puzzled that his hands were milking a goat. He stopped.

“What is your name?” said a voice behind him.

“Bustle. Sensibil—”

“No! That was the wizard, Tiffany! He was the strongest echo, but you’re not him! Get into the dairy, Tiffany!”

She stumbled into the cool room under the command of that voice, and the world focused. There was a foul cheese on the slab, sweating and stinking.

“Who put this here?” she asked.

“The hiver did, Tiffany. Tried to make a cheese by magic, Tiffany. Hah! And you are not it, Tiffany! You
know
how to make cheese the right way, don’t you, Tiffany? Indeed you do! What is your name?”

…all was confusion and strange smells. In panic, she roared
—

Her face was slapped again.

“No, that was the saber-toothed tiger, Tiffany! They’re all just old memories the hiver left behind, Tiffany! It’s worn a lot of creatures, but they are not you! Come forward, Tiffany!”

She heard the words without really understanding them. They were just out there somewhere, between people who were just shadows. But it was unthinkable to disobey them.

“Drat!” said the hazy tall figure, “where’s that little blue feller? Mr. Anyone?”

“Here, mistress. It’s Rob Anybody, mistress. I beg o’ ye not tae turn me intae somethin’ unnatural, mistress!”

“You said she had a box of keepsakes. Fetch it down here this minute. I feared this might happen. I
hates
doin’ it this way!”

Tiffany was turned around and once again looked into the blurry face while strong hands gripped her arms. Two blue eyes stared into hers. They shone in the mist like sapphires.

“What’s your name, Tiffany?” said the voice.

“Tiffany!”

The eyes bored into her. “Is it? Really? Sing me the first song you ever learned, Tiffany!
Now!
”

“Hzan, hzana, m’taza—”

“Stop! That was never learned on a chalk hill! You ain’t Tiffany! I reckon you’re that desert queen who killed twelve of her husbands with scorpion sandwiches! Tiffany is the one I’m after! Back into the dark with you!”

Things went blurry again. She could hear whispered discussions through the fog, and the voice said: “Well, that might work. What’s your name, pictsie?”

“Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle, mistress.”

“You’re
very
small, aren’t you?”

“Only for my height, mistress.”

The grip tightened on Tiffany’s arms again. The blue eyes glinted.

“What does your name mean in the Old Speech of the Nac Mac Feegle, Tiffany? Think…”

It rose from the depths of her mind, trailing the fog behind it. It came up through the clamoring voices and lifted her beyond the reach of ghostly hands. Ahead, the clouds parted.

“My name is Land Under Wave,” said Tiffany, and slumped forward.

“No, no, none of that, we can’t have that,” said the figure holding her. “You’ve slept enough. Good, you know who you are! Now you must be up and doing! You must
be
Tiffany as hard as you may, and the other voices
will
leave you alone, depend on it. Although it might be a good idea if you don’t make sandwiches for a while.”

She did feel better. She’d said her name. The clamoring in her head had calmed down,
although it was still a chatter that made it hard to think straight. But now at least she could see clearly. The black-dressed figure holding her wasn’t tall, but she was so good at acting as if she was that it tended to fool most people.

“Oh…you’re…
Mistress Weatherwax
?”

Mistress Weatherwax pushed her down gently into a chair. From every flat surface in the kitchen, the Nac Mac Feegles watched Tiffany.

“I am. And a fine mess we have here. Rest for a moment, and then we must be up and doing—”

“Good morning, ladies. Er, how is she?”

Tiffany turned her head. Miss Level stood in the door. She looked pale, and she was walking with a stick.

“I was lying in bed and I thought, well, there’s no reason to stay up here feeling sorry for myself,” she said.

Tiffany stood up. “I’m so sor—” she began, but Miss Level waved a hand vaguely.

“Not your fault,” she said, sitting down heavily at the table. “How are you? And, for that matter,
who
are you?”

Tiffany blushed. “Still me, I think,” she mumbled.

“I got here last night and saw to Miss Level,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “Watched over you, too,
girl. You talked in your sleep, or rather, Sensibility Bustle did, what’s left of him. That ol’ wizard was quite helpful, for something that’s nothing much more’n a bunch of memories and habits.”

“I don’t understand about the wizard,” said Tiffany. “Or the desert queen.”

“Don’t you?” said the witch. “Well, a hiver collects people. Tries to add them to itself, you might say, use them to think with. Dr. Bustle was studying them hundreds of years ago, and set a trap to catch one. It got him instead, silly fool. It killed him in the end. It gets ’em all killed in the end. They go mad, one way or the other—they stop remembering what they shouldn’t do. But it keeps a sort of…pale copy of them, a sort of living memory….” She looked at Tiffany’s puzzled expression and shrugged. “Something like a ghost,” she said.

“And it’s left
ghosts
in my head?”

“More like ghosts of ghosts, really,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “Something we don’t have a word for, maybe.”

Miss Level shuddered. “Well, thank goodness you’ve got rid of the thing, at least,” she quavered. “Would anyone like a nice cup of tea?”

“Ach, leave that tae us!” shouted Rob Anybody, leaping up. “Daft Wullie, you an’ the
boys mak’ some tea for the ladies!”

“Thank you,” said Miss Level weakly, as a clattering began behind her. “I feel so clum—
what?
I thought you broke all the teacups when you did the dishes!”

“Oh, aye,” said Rob cheerfully. “But Wullie found a whole load o’ old ones shut awa’ in a cupboard—”

“That very valuable bone china was left to me by a very dear friend!”
shouted Miss Level. She sprang to her feet and turned toward the sink. With amazing speed for someone who was partly dead, she snatched teapot, cup, and saucer from the surprised pictsies and held them up as high as she could.

“Crivens!” said Rob Anybody, staring at the crockery. “Now that’s what I
call
hagglin’!”

“I’m sorry to be rude, but they’re of great sentimental value!” said Miss Level.

“Mr. Anybody, you and your men will kindly get away from Miss Level and
shut up
!” said Mistress Weatherwax quickly. “Pray do not disturb Miss Level while she’s making tea!”

“But she’s holding—” Tiffany began in amazement.

“And let her get on with it without your chatter either, girl!” the witch snapped.

“Aye, but she picked up yon teapot wi’oot—”
a voice began.

The old witch’s head spun around. Feegles backed away like trees bending to a gale.

“Daft William,” she said coldly, “there’s room in my well for one more frog, except that you don’t have the brains of one!”

“Ahahaha, that’s wholly correct, mistress,” said Daft Wullie, sticking out his chin with pride. “I fooled you there! I ha’ the brains o’ a beetle!”

Mistress Weatherwax glared at him, then turned back to Tiffany.

“
I
turned someone into a frog!” Tiffany said. “It was dreadful! He didn’t all fit in, so there was this sort of huge pink—”

“Never mind that right now,” said Mistress Weatherwax in a voice that was suddenly so nice and ordinary that it tinkled like a bell. “I expect you finds things a bit different here than they were at home, eh?”

“What? Well, yes, at home I never turned—” Tiffany began in surprise, then saw that just above her lap the old woman was making frantic circular hand motions that somehow meant
keep going as if nothing has happened.

So they chatted madly about sheep, and Mistress Weatherwax said they were very wooly, weren’t
they, and Tiffany said that they were, extremely so, and Mistress Weatherwax said extremely wooly was what she’d heard…while every eye in the room watched Miss Level—

—making tea using four arms, two of which did not exist, and not realizing it.

The black kettle sailed across the room and apparently tipped itself into the pot. Cups and saucers and spoons and the sugar bowl floated with a purpose.

Mistress Weatherwax leaned across to Tiffany.

“I hope you’re still feeling…alone?” she whispered.

“Yes, thank you. I mean, I can…sort of…feel them there, but they’re not getting in the way…er…sooner or later she’s going to realize…I mean, isn’t she?”

“Very funny thing, the human mind,” whispered the old woman. “I once had to see to a poor young man who had a tree fall on his legs. Lost both legs from the knee down. Had to have wooden legs made. Still, they were made out of that tree, which I suppose was some comfort, and he gets about pretty well. But I remember him saying, ‘Mistress Weatherwax, I can still feel my toes sometimes.’ It’s like the head don’t accept what’s happened. And it’s not like she’s…your
everyday kind of person to start with. I mean, she’s used to havin’ arms she can’t see—”

“Here we are,” said Miss Level, bustling over with three cups and saucers and the sugar bowl. “One for you, one for you, and one for—oh…”

The sugar bowl dropped from an invisible hand and spilled its sugar onto the table. Miss Level stared at it in horror while, in the other hand that wasn’t there, a cup and saucer wobbled without visible means of support.

“Shut your eyes, Miss Level!” And there was something in the voice, some edge or strange tone, that made Tiffany shut her eyes too.

“Right! Now, you
know
the cup’s there, you can
feel
your arm,” said Mistress Weatherwax, standing up. “Trust it! Your eyes are not in possession of all the facts! Now put the cup down gently…thaaat’s right. You can open your eyes now, but what I wants you to do, right, as a favor to me, is
put the hands that you can see flat down on the table
. Right. Good. Now, without takin’ those hands away, just go over to the dresser and fetch me that blue biscuit tin, will you? I’m always partial to a biscuit with my tea. Thank you very much.”

“But…but I can’t do that now—”

“Get past ‘I can’t,’ Miss Level,” Mistress
Weatherwax snapped. “Don’t think about it, just do it! My tea’s getting cold!”