slam-bang intae the big cludgie in the sky. It’s like a magical order. ‘Tis a heavy thing,
tae be under a geas.’
‘Well, they’re big birds,’ said Daft Wullie.
‘Wullie,’ said Rob, patiently, ‘ye ken I said I would tell ye when there wuz times you
should’ve kept your big gob shut?’
‘Aye, Rob.’
‘Weel, that wuz one o’ them times.’ He raised his voice. ‘Now, lads, ye ken all aboot
hivers. They cannae be killed! But ’tis oor duty to save the big wee hag, so this is, like, a
sooey-side mission and yell probably all end up back in the land o’ the living doin’ a
borin’ wee job. So . . . I’m askin’ for volunteers!’
Every Feegle over the age of four automatically put his hand up.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Rob. ‘You cannae all come! Look, I’ll tak’ . . . Daft Wullie, Big Yan and . . . you, Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin. An’ I’m takin’ no weans, so if yez under
three inches high ye’re not comin’! Except for ye, o’course, Awf’ly Wee Billy. As for the
rest of youse, we’ll settle this the traditional Feegle way. I’ll tak’ the last fifty men still
standing!’
He beckoned the chosen three to a place in the corner of the mound while the rest of
the crowd squared up cheerfully. A Feegle liked to face enormous odds all by
himself, because it meant you didn’t have to look where you were hitting.
‘She’s more’n a hundret miles awa’,’ said Rob as the big fight started. ‘We cannae run
it, ’tis too far. Any of youse scunners got any ideas?’
‘Hamish can get there on his buzzard,’ said Big
Yan, stepping aside as a cluster of punching, kicking Feegles rolled past.
‘Aye, and he’ll come wi’ us, but he cannae tak’ more’n one passenger,’ shouted Rob
over the din.
‘Can we swim it?’ said Daft Wullie, ducking as a stunned Feegle hurtled over his
head.
The others looked at him. ‘Swim it? How can we swim there fra’ here, yer daftie?’
said Rob Anybody.
‘It’s just worth consid’ring, that’s all,’ said Wullie, looking hurt. ‘I wuz just tryin’ to
make a contribution, ye ken? Just wanted to show willin’.’
‘The big wee hag left in a cart,’ said Big Yan.
‘Aye, so what?’ said Rob.
‘Weel, mebbe we could?’
‘Ach, no!’ said Rob. ‘Showin’ oursels tae hags is one thing, but not to other folks!
You remember what happened a few years back when Daft Wullie got spotted by that
lady who wuz painting the pretty pictures doon in the valley? I dinnae want to have
them Folklore Society bigjobs pokin’ aroound again!’
‘I have an idea, Mister Rob. It’s me, Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle. We could
disguise oursels.’
Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle always announced himself in full. He seemed
to feel that if he didn’t tell people who he was, they’d forget about him and he’d
disappear. When you’re half the size of most grown pictsies you’re really short; much
shorter and you’d be a hole in the ground.
He was the new gonnagle. A gonnagle is the clan’s
bard and battle poet, but they don’t spend all their lives in the same clan. In fact,
they’re a sort of clan all by themselves. Gonnagles move around among the other clans,
making sure the songs and stories get spread around all the Feegles. Awf’ly Wee Billy
had come with Jeannie from the Long Lake clan, which often happens. He was very
young for a gonnagle, but as Jeannie had said, there was no age limit to gonnagling. If
the talent was in you, you gonnagled. And Awf’ly Wee Billy knew all the songs and
could play the mousepipes so sadly that outside it would start to rain.
‘Aye, lad?’ said Rob Anybody kindly. ‘Speak up, then.’
‘Can we get hold o’ some human clothes?’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘Because there’s an
old story about the big feud between the Three Peaks clan and the Windy River clan and
the Windy River boys escaped by making a tattie-bogle walk, and the men o’ Three
Peaks thought it was a bigjob and kept oot o’ its way.’
The others looked puzzled, and Awf’ly Wee Billy remembered that they were men of
the Chalk and had probably never seen a tattie-bogle.
‘A scarecrow?’ he said. ‘It’s like a bigjob made o’ sticks, wi’ clothes on, for to frighten
away the birdies fra’ the crops? Now, the song says the Windy River’s kelda used magic to
make it walk, but I reckon it was done by cunnin’ and strength.’
He sang about it. They listened.
He explained how to make a human that would
walk. They looked at one another. It was a mad, desperate plan, which was very
dangerous and risky and would require tremendous strength and bravery to make it
work. Put like that, they agreed to it instantly.
Tiffany found that there was more than chores and the research, though. There was
what Miss Level called ‘filling what’s empty and emptying what’s full’.
Usually only one of Miss Level’s bodies went out at a time. People thought Miss Level
was twins, and she made sure they continued to do so, but she found it a little bit safer
all round to keep the bodies apart. Tiffany could see why. You only had to watch both of
Miss Level when she was eating. The bodies would pass plates to one another without
saying a word, sometimes they’d eat off one another’s forks, and it was rather strange
to see one person burp and the other one say ‘Oops, pardon me’.
‘Filling what’s empty and emptying what’s full’ meant wandering round the local
villages and the isolated farms and, mostly, doing medicine. There were always
bandages to change or expectant mothers to talk to. Witches did a lot of midwifery,
which is a kind of ’emptying what’s full’, but Miss Level, wearing her pointy hat, had
only to turn up at a cottage for other people to suddenly come visiting, by sheer accident.
And there was an awful lot of gossip and tea-drinking. Miss Level moved in a twitching,
living world of gossip, although Tiffany noticed that she picked up a lot more than she
passed on.
It seemed to be a world made up entirely of women, but occasionally, out in the
lanes, a man would strike up a conversation about the weather and somehow, by
some sort of code, an ointment or a potion would get handed over.
Tiffany couldn’t quite work out how Miss Level got paid. Certainly the basket she
carried filled up more than it emptied. They’d walk past a cottage and a woman would
come scurrying out with a fresh-baked loaf or a jar of pickles, even though Miss Level
hadn’t stopped there. But they’d spend an hour somewhere else, stitching up the leg
of a farmer who’d been careless with an axe, and get a cup of tea and a stale biscuit. It
didn’t seem fair.
‘Oh, it evens out,’ said Miss Level, as they walked on through the woods. ‘You do what
you can. People give what they can, when they can. Old Slapwick there, with the leg,
he’s as mean as a cat, but there’ll be a big cut of beef on my doorstep before the week’s
end, you can bet on it. His wife will see to it. And pretty soon people will be killing
their pigs for the winter, and I’ll get more brawn, ham, bacon and sausages turning up
than a family could eat in a year.’
‘You do? What do you do with all that food?’
‘Store it,’ said Miss Level.
‘But you-‘
‘I store it in other people. It’s amazing what you
can store in other people.’ Miss Level laughed at Tiffany’s expression. ‘I mean, I take
what I don’t need round to those who don’t have a pig, or who’re going through a
bad patch, or who don’t have anyone to remember them.’
‘But that means they’ll owe you a favour!’
‘Right! And so it just keeps on going round. It all works out.’
‘I bet some people are too mean to pay-‘
‘Not pay,’ said Miss Level, severely. ‘A witch never expects payment and never asks for
it and just hopes she never needs to. But, sadly, you are right.’
yAnd then what happens?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You stop helping them, do you?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Miss Level, genuinely shocked. ‘You can’t not help people just because
they’re stupid or forgetful or unpleasant. Everyone’s poor round here. If I don’t help
them, who will?’
‘Granny Aching . . . that is, my grandmother said someone has to speak up for them
as has no voices,’ Tiffany volunteered after a moment.
‘Was she a witch?’
I’m not sure,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think so, but she didn’t know she was. She mostly
lived by herself in an old shepherding hut up on the downs.’