‘And you have do what she says?’ said Tiffany.
‘I listen to her advice/ said Miss Level, coldly.
‘Mistress Weatherwax is the head witch, then, is she?’
‘Oh no!’ said Miss Level, looking shocked. ‘Witches are all equal. We don’t have
things like head witches. That’s quite against the spirit of witchcraft.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Tiffany.
‘Besides,’ Miss Level added, ‘Mistress Weatherwax would never allow that sort of
thing.’
Suddenly, things were going missing from the households around the Chalk. This wasn’t
the occasional egg or chicken. Clothes were vanishing off washing lines. A pair of boots
mysteriously disappeared from under the bed of Nosey Hinds, the oldest man in the
village – ‘And they was damn good boots, they could walk home from the pub all by
themselves if I but pointed they in the right direction,’ he complained to anyone who
would listen. ‘And they marched off wi’ my old hat, too. And I’d got he just as I wanted
he, all soft and floppy!’
A pair of trousers and a long coat vanished from a hook belonging to Abiding
Swindell, the ferret-keeper, and the coat still had ferrets living in the
inside pockets. And who, who climbed through the bedroom window of Clem
Doins and shaved off his beard, which had been so long that he could tuck it into his
belt? Not a hair was left. He had to go around with a scarf over his face, in case the
sight of his poor pink chin frightened the ladies. . .
It was probably witches, people agreed, and made a few more curse-nets to hang in
their windows.
However . . .
On the far side of the Chalk, where the long green slopes came down to the flat fields
of the plain, there were big thickets of bramble and hawthorn. Usually, these were alive
with birdsong, but this particular one, the one just here, was alive with cussing.
‘Ach, crivens! Will ye no’ mind where ye ‘re puttin’ yer foot, ye spavie!’
‘I cannae help it! It’s nae easy, bein’ a knee!’
‘ Ye think ye got troubles? Ye wannae be doon here in the boots! That old man Swindell couldnae
ha’ washed his feet in years! It’s fair reekin’ doon here!’
‘Reekin’, izzit? Well, you try bein’ in this pocket! Them ferrets ne ‘er got oot to gae to the
lavie, if you get my meanin’!’
‘Crivens! Will ye dafties no’ shut up?’
‘Oh, aye? Hark at him! Just ‘cuzye’re up in the held, you think you know everythin’? Fra’
doon here ye’re nothing but dead weight, pal!’
‘Aye, right! I’m wi’ the elbows on this one! Where’dyou be if it wuzn’tfor us carryin’ ye
aroound? Who’s ye think ye are?’
‘I’m Rob Anybody Feegle, as you ken well enough, an’ I’ve had enough o’ the lot o’ yezf
‘OK, Rob, but it’s real stuffy in here!’
‘Ach, an’ I’m fed up wi’ the stomach complainin’, too!’
‘Gentlemen.’ This was the voice of the toad; no one else would dream of calling the
Nac Mac Feegle gentlemen. ‘Gentlemen, time is of the essence. The cart will be here
soon! You must not miss it!’
‘We need more time to practise, Toad! We’re walkin’ like a feller wi’ nae bones and
a serious case o’ the trots!’ said a voice a little higher up than the rest.
‘At least you are walking. That’s good enough. I wish you luck, gentlemen.’
There was a cry from further along the thickets, where a lookout had been watching
the road.
‘The cart’s comin’ doon the hill!’
‘OK, lads!’ shouted Rob Anybody. ‘Toad, you look after Jeannie, y’hear? She’ll need a
thinkin’ laddie to rely on while I’m no’ here! Right, ye scunners! It’s do or die! Ye ken
what to do! Ye lads on the ropes, pull us up noo!’ The bushes shook. ‘Right! Pelvis, are ye ready?’
‘Aye, Rob!’
‘Knees? Knees? I said, knees?’
‘Aye, Rob, but-‘
‘Feets?’
‘Aye, Rob!’
The bushes shook again.
‘Right! Remember: right, left, right, left! Pelvis,
knee, foot on the groond! Keep a spring in the step, feets! Are you ready? Altogether,
boys . . . walk!’
It was a big surprise for Mr Crabber the carter. He’d been staring vaguely at nothing,
thinking only of going home, when something stepped out of the bushes and into the
road. It looked human or, rather, looked slightly more human than it looked like any-
thing else. But it seemed to be having trouble with its knees, and walked as though
they’d been tied together.
However, the carter didn’t spend too much time thinking about that because,
clutched in one gloved hand that was waving vaguely in the air, was something gold.
This immediately identified the stranger, as far as the carter was concerned. He was
not, as first sight might suggest, some old tramp to be left by the roadside, but an
obvious gentleman down on his luck, and it was practically the carter’s duty to help him.
He slowed the horse to a standstill.
The stranger didn’t really have a face. There was nothing much to see between the
droopy hat brim and the turned-up collar of the coat except a lot of beard. But from
somewhere within the beard a voice said:
‘. . . Shudupshudup . . . will ye all shudup while I’m talkin’. . . Ahem. Good day ta’ ye,
carter fellow my ol’ fellowy fellow! If ye’ll gie us – me a lift as far as ye are goin’, we –
I’ll gie ye this fine shiny golden coin!’
The figure lurched forward and thrust its hand in front of Mr Crabber’s face.
It was quite a large coin. And it was certainly gold. It had come from the treasure of
the old dead king who was buried in the main part of the Feegles’ mound. Oddly
enough, the Feegles weren’t hugely interested in gold once they’d stolen it, because you
couldn’t drink it and it was difficult to eat. In the mound, they mostly used the old coins
and plates to reflect candlelight and give the place a nice glow. It was no hardship to
give some away.
The carter stared at it. It was more money than he had ever seen in his life.
‘If. . . sir . . . would like to . . . hop on the back of the cart, sir,’ he said, carefully taking it.
‘Ach, right you are, then,’ said the bearded mystery man after a pause. ‘Just a
moment, this needs a wee bitty organizin’ . . . OK, youse hands, you just grab the side
o’ the cart, and’ you leftie leg, ye gotta kinda sidle along . . . ach, crivens! Ye gotta bend!
Bend! C’mon, get it right!’ The hairy face turned to the carter. ‘Sorry aboot this,’ it
said. T talk to my knees, but they dinnae listen to me.’
‘Is that right?’ said the carter weakly. ‘I have trouble with my knees in the wet
weather. Goose grease works.’
‘Ah, weel, these knees is gonna get more’n a greasin’ if I ha’ to get doon there an’
sort them oot!’ snarled the hairy man.
The carter heard various bangs and grunts behind
him as the man hauled himself onto the tail of the cart.
‘OK, let’s gae,’ said a voice. ‘We’ havenae got all day. And youse knees, you’re
sacked! Crivens, I’m walkin’ like I got a big touch of the stoppies! You gae up to the
stomach and send doon a couple of good knee men!’
The carter bit the coin thoughtfully as he urged the horse into a walk. It was such pure
gold that he left toothmarks. That meant his passenger was very, very rich. That was
becoming very important at this point.
‘Can ye no’ go a wee bitty faster, my good man, my good man?’ said the voice behind
him, after they had gone a little way.
‘Ah, well, sir,’ said the carter, ‘see them boxes and crates? I’ve got a load of eggs, and
those apples mustn’t be bruised, sir, and then there’s those jugs of-‘
There were some bangs and crashes behind him, including the sploosh that a large crate
of eggs makes when it hits a road.
‘Ye can gae faster noo, eh?’ said the voice.
‘Hey, that was my-‘ Mr Crabber began.
‘I’ve got another one o’ they big wee gold coins for ye!’ And a heavy and smelly arm
landed on the carter’s shoulder. Dangling from the glove on the end of it was, indeed,
another coin. It was ten times what the load had been worth.
‘Oh, well. . .’ said the carter, carefully taking the coin. ‘Accidents do happen, eh, sir?’
‘Aye, especially if I dinnae think I’m goin’ fast enough,’ said the voice behind him.
‘We – I mean I’m in a big hurry tae get tae yon mountains, ye ken!’
‘But I’m not a stagecoach, sir,’ said the carter reproachfully as he urged his old horse