The Wee Free Men

Page 19

“I think I ought to talk to Hamish,” she said.
“Right ye are, mistress,” said a voice by her ear. She turned her head.
“How long have you been there?” she said.
“A’ the time, mistress,” said the pictsie. Others poked their heads around the trees and out from under leaves. There were at least twenty on the mound.
“You’ve been watching me all the time?”
“Aye, mistress. ’Tis oour task to watch o’er our kelda. I’m up here most o’ the time anyway, because I’m studying to become a gonnagle.” The young Feegle flourished a set of mousepipes. “An’ they willna let me play doon there on account o’ them sayin’ my playin’ sounds like a spider tryin’ to fart through its ears, mistress.”
“But what happens if I want to spend a—have a—go to the—what happens if I say I don’t want you to guard me?”
“If it’s a wee call o’ nature ye’re talkin’ aboout, mistress, the cludgie is o’er there in the chalk pit. Ye’ll just sing oot to us where ye’re goin’ and no one’ll go peeking, ye’ll have oour word on it,” said the attendant Feegle.
Tiffany glared at him as he stood in the primroses, beaming with pride and anxious duty. He was younger than most of them, without as many scars and lumps. Even his nose wasn’t broken.
“What’s your name, pictsie?” she said.
“No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress. There’s no’ that many Feegle names, ye ken, so we ha’ to share.”
“Well, Not-as-big-as-Little-Jock—” Tiffany began.
“That’d be Medium-Sized Jock, mistress,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
“Well, Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock, I can—”
“That’s No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. “Ye were one jock short,” he added helpfully.
“You wouldn’t be happier with, say, Henry?” said Tiffany, helplessly.
“Ach, nay, mistress.” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock wrinkled his face. “There’s nay history tae the name, ye ken. But there have been a number o’ brave warriors called No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. Why, ’tis nearly as famous a name as Wee Jock itself! An’, o’ course, should Wee Jock hisself be taken back to the Last World, then I’ll get the name o’Wee Jock, which isna to say that I mislike the name o’ No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, ye ken. There’s been many a fine story o’ the exploits o’ No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock,” the pictsie added, looking so earnest that Tiffany didn’t have the heart to say that they must have been very long stories.
Instead she said: “Well, er, please, I want to talk to Hamish the aviator.”
“Nae problem,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. “He’s up there right noo.”
He vanished. A moment later Tiffany heard—or, rather, felt with her ears—the bubbling sensation of a Feegle whistle.
Tiffany pulled Diseases of the Sheep, which was now looking very battered, out of her apron. There was a blank page at the back. She tore it out, feeling like a criminal for doing so, and took out her pencil.
“Dear Mum and Dad,” she wrote carefully. “How are you, I am well. Wentworth is also well but I have to go and fetch him from the Qu where he is staying. Hope to be back soon, Tiffany. PS I hope the cheese is all right.”
She was just considering this when she heard a rush of wings overhead. There was a whirring noise, a moment of silence, and then a small, weary, and rather muffled voice said: “Ach, crivens…”
She looked out onto the turf. The body of Hamish was upside down a few feet away. His arms with their twirlers were still outstretched.*
It took some time to get him out. If he landed headfirst and spinning, Tiffany was told, he had to be unscrewed in the opposite direction so that his ears wouldn’t come off.
When he was upright and swaying unsteadily, Tiffany said: “Can you wrap this letter in a stone and drop it in front of the farmhouse where people will see it?”
“Aye, mistress.”
“And…er…does it hurt when you land headfirst like that?”
“Nay, mistress, but it is awfu’ embarrassing.”
“Then there’s a sort of toy we used to make that might help you,” said Tiffany. “You make a kind of…bag of air—”
“Bag o’ air?” said the aviator, looking puzzled.
“Well, you know how things like shirts billow out on a clothesline when it’s windy? Well, you just make a cloth bag and tie some strings to it and a stone to the strings, and when you throw it up, the bag fills with air and the stone floats down.”
Hamish stared at her.
“Do you understand me?” said Tiffany.
“Oh, aye. I wuz just waitin’ to see if you wuz goin’ to tell me anything else,” said Hamish politely.
“Do you think you could, er, borrow some fine cloth?”
“Nay, mistress, but I ken well where I can steal some,” said Hamish.
Tiffany decided not to comment on this. She said: “Where was the Queen when the mist came down?”
Hamish pointed. “Aboot a half mile yonder, mistress.”
In the distance Tiffany could see some more mounds, and a few stones from the old days.
Trilithons, they were called, which just meant “three stones.” The only stones found naturally on the downs were flints. But the giant stones of the trilithons had been dragged from at least ten miles away, and were stacked like a child stacks toy bricks. Here and there the big stones had been stood in circles; sometimes one stone had been placed all alone. It must have taken a lot of people a long time to do all that. Some people said there’d been human sacrifices up there. Some said they were part of some old religion. Some said they marked ancient graves.
Some said they were a warning: Avoid this place.
Tiffany hadn’t. She’d been there with her sisters a few times, as a dare, just in case there were any skulls. But the mounds around the stones were thousands of years old. All that you found there now were rabbit holes.
“Anything else, mistress?” said Hamish politely. “Nay? Then I’ll just be goin’….”
He raised his arms over his head and started to run across the turf. Tiffany jumped as the buzzard skimmed down a few feet away from her and snatched him back up into the sky.
“How can a man six inches high train a bird like that?” she asked as the buzzard circled again for height.
“Ach, all it takes is a wee drop o’ kindness, mistress,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
“Really?”
“Aye, an’ a big dollop o’ cruelty,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock said. “Hamish trains ’em by runnin’ aroound in a rabbit skin until a bird pounces on him.”
“That sounds awful!” said Tiffany.
“Ach, he’s not too nasty aboot it. He just knocks them out wi’ his heid, and then he’s got a special oil he makes which he blows up their beak,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock went on. “When they wakes up, they thinks he’s their mammy and’ll do his biddin’.”
The buzzard was already a distant speck.
“He hardly seems to spend any time on the ground!” said Tiffany.
“Oh, aye. He sleeps in the buzzard’s nest at night, mistress. He says it’s wunnerfully warm. An’ he spends all his time in the air,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock added. “He’s ne’er happy unless he’s got the wind under his kilt.”
“And the birds don’t mind?”
“Ach, no, mistress. All the birds and beasts up here know it’s good luck to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle, mistress.”
“They do?”
“Well, to tell ye the truth, mistress, it’s more that they know it’s unlucky not to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle.”
Tiffany looked at the sun. It was only a few hours away from setting.
“I must find the way in,” she said. “Look, Not-as-small-as—”
“No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress,” said the pictsie, patiently.
“Yes, yes, thank you. Where is Rob Anybody? Where is everybody, in fact?”
The young pictsie looked a bit embarrassed.
“There’s a bit o’ a debate goin’ on down below, mistress,” he said.
“Well, we have got to find my brother, okay? I am the kelda in this vicinity, yes?”
“It’s a wee bit more comp-li-cat-ed than that, mistress. They’re, er, discussin’ ye…”
“Discussing what about me?”
Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock looked as if he really didn’t want to be standing there.
“Um, they’re discussing…er…they…”
Tiffany gave up. The pictsie was blushing. Since he was blue to begin with, this turned him an unpleasant violet color. “I’ll go back down the hole. Give my boots a push, will you, please?”
She slid down the dry dirt, and Feegles scattered in the cave below as she landed.
When her eyes got accustomed to the gloom once more, she saw that the galleries were crowded with pictsies again. Some of them were in the middle of washing, and many of them had, for some reason, smoothed down their red hair with grease. They all stared at her as if caught in the act of something dreadful.
“We ought to be going if we’re to follow the Queen,” she said, looking down at Rob Anybody, who’d been washing his face in a basin made of half a walnut shell. Water dripped off his beard, which he’d braided up. There were three braids in his long hair now too. If he turned suddenly, he could probably whip somebody to death.
“Ach, weel,” he said, “there’s a wee matter we got tae sort oout, kelda.” He twiddled the tiny washcloth in his hands. When Rob Anybody twiddled, he was worried.
“Yes?” said Tiffany.
“Er…will ye no ha’ a cup o’ tea?” said Rob Anybody, and a pictsie staggered forward with a big gold cup that must have been made for a king.
Tiffany took it. She was thirsty, after all. There was a sigh from the crowd when she sipped the tea. It was actually quite good.
“We stole a bag o’ it fra’ a peddler who was asleep down by the high road,” said Rob Anybody. “Good stuff, eh?” He patted down his hair with his wet hands.
Tiffany’s cup stopped halfway to her lips. Perhaps the pictsies didn’t realize how loudly they whispered, because her ear was on a level with a conversation.