scared of us\ I’m going out!’
‘I think that would be a good idea,’ said Miss Level weakly. ‘Until you behave.’
‘I don’t have to do things your way,’ snarled Tiffany, slamming the door behind
her.
Miss Level’s broomstick was leaning against the wall a little way away. Tiffany
stopped and stared at it, her mind on fire.
She’d tried to keep away from it. Miss Level had wheedled her into a trial flight with
Tiffany clinging on tightly with arms and legs while both of Miss Level ran alongside
her, holding onto ropes and making encouraging noises. They had stopped when
Tiffany threw up for the fourth time.
Well, that was then!
She grabbed the stick, swung a leg over it – and found that her other foot stuck to
the ground as though nailed there. The broomstick twisted around wildly as she tried
to pull it up and, when the boot was finally tugged off the ground, turned over so
that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the best position in which to make a grand
exit.
She said, quietly, ‘I am not going to learn you, you are going to learn me. Or the next lesson will involve an axe!’
The broomstick turned upright, then gently rose.
‘Right,’ said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience. The
ground dropping away below her didn’t worry her at all. If it didn’t have the sense to
stay away from her, she’d hit it. . .
As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long grass of the garden.
‘Ach, we’re too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.’
‘Aye, but did ye see that foot? It’s nae won yet – oor hag’s in there somewhere! She’s fighting it!
It cannae win until it’s taken the last scrap o’ her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin’ to grab them apples!’
‘It’s sorry I am tae say this, Rob, but no one can fight a hiver. ‘Tis like fightin’ yoursel. The more you fight, the more it’ll tak’ o’ ye. And when it has all o’ ye-‘
‘Wash ootyer mouth wi’ hedgehog pee, Big Yan! That isnae gonna happen-‘
‘Crivens! Here comes the big hag!’
Half of Miss Level stepped out into the ruined garden.
She stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head.
Daft Wullie was stuck out in the open where he’d been trying to snag a fallen apple.
He turned to flee and would have got clean away if he hadn’t run straight into a
pottery garden gnome. He bounced off, stunned, and staggered wildly, trying to focus
on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of him. He was far too angry to hear the
click of the garden gate and soft tread of approaching footsteps.
When it comes to choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn’t think
twice. He doesn’t think at all.
‘What’re ye grinnin’ at, pal?’ he demanded. ‘Oh aye, you reckon you’re the
big man, eh, jus’ ‘cos yez got a fishin’ rod?’ He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand
and aimed his head at what turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed
anyway, as things tend to in these circumstances, but it did slow the little man down
and cause him to stagger in circles.
Too late, he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to
flee, right into the hands of also Miss Level.
Her fingers closed around him.
I’m a witch, you know,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t stop struggling this minute I will
subject you to the most dreadful torture. Do you know what that is?’
Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of juggling had given Miss Level a grip
like steel. Down in the long grass, the rest of the Feegles listened so hard it hurt.
Miss Level brought him a little closer to her mouth. ‘I’ll let you go right now
without giving you a taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my
cupboard,’ she said.
Rob Anybody leaped up. ‘Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi’!
D’ye no’ have a drop of mercy in you?’ he shouted. ‘Ye’re a cruel hag indeed tae-‘ He
stopped. Miss Level was smiling. Rob Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the
ground and said: ‘Ach, crivensV
The Nac Mac Feegle respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one
had brought out a big loaf and a whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You
had to respect someone like that.
‘Of course, I’d heard of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,’ she said, watching
them eat, which is not something to be done lightly. ‘But I always thought you were
just a myth.’
‘Aye, weel, we’ll stay that way if ye dinnae mind,’ said Rob Anybody, and belched.’
‘Tis bad enough wi’ them arky-olly-gee men wantin’ to dig up oour mounds wi’oot
them folklore ladies wantin’ to tak’ pichoors o’ us an’ that.’
‘And you watch over Tiffany’s farm, Mr Anybody?’
‘Aye, we do that, an’ we dinnae ask for any
reward,’ said Rob Anybody stoutly.
‘Aye, we just tak’ a few wee eiggs an’ fruits an’ old clothes and-‘ Daft Wullie began.
Rob gave him a look.
‘Er . . . wuz that one o’ those times when I shouldna’ open my big fat mouth?’
said Wullie.
‘Aye. It wuz,’ said Rob. He turned back to both of Miss Level. ‘Mebbe we tak’ the odd
bitty thing lyin’ aboot-‘
‘- in locked cupboards an’ such-‘ added Daft Wullie happily.
‘- but it’s no’ missed, an’ we keeps an eye on the ships in payment,’ said Rob, glaring
at his brother.
‘You can see the sea from down there?’ said Miss Level, entering that state of
general bewilderment that most people fell into when talking to the Feegles.
‘Rob Anybody means the sheep,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. Gonnagles know a bit more
about language.
‘Aye, I said so, ships,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Anywa’ . .. aye, we watch her farm.
She’s the hag o’ oor hills, like her granny.’ He added proudly, ‘It’s through her the
hills knows they are alive.’
‘And a hiver is . . . ?’
Rob hesitated. ‘Dunno the proper haggin’ way o’ talking aboot it,’ he said. ‘Awf’ly
Wee Billy, you know them lang words.’
Billy swallowed. ‘There’s old poems, mistress. It’s like a – a mind wi’oot a body, except
it disnae think. Some say it’s nothing but a fear, and never dies. And
what it does .. .’ His tiny face wrinkled. ‘It’s like them things you get on sheep,’ he
decided.
The Feegles who weren’t eating and drinking came to his aid.
‘Horns?’
‘Wools?’
‘Tails?’
‘Legs?’
‘Chairs?’ This was Daft Wullie.
‘Sheep ticks,’ said Billy, thoughtfully.
‘A parasite, you mean?’ said Miss Level.
‘Aye, that could be the word,’ said Billy. ‘It creeps in, ye ken. It looks for folks wi’
power and strength. Kings, ye ken, magicians, leaders. They say that way back in time,
afore there wuz people, it live in beasts. The strongest beasts, ye ken, the one wi’ big,
big teeths. An’ when it finds ye, it waits for a chance tae creep intae your head and it
becomes ye.’
The Feegles fell silent, watching Miss Level.
‘Becomes you?’ she said.
‘Aye. Wi’ your memories an’ all. Only . . . it changes ye. It gives ye a lot o’ power,
but it takes ye over, makes ye its own. An’ the last wee bit of ye that still is ye . . . well,
that’ll fight and fight, mebbe, but it will dwindle and dwindle until it’s a’ gone an’ ye’re
just a memory
The Feegles watched both of Miss Level. You never knew what a hag would do at a
time like this.
‘Wizards used to summon demons,’ she said. ‘They may still do so, although I think
that’s considered so
fifteen centuries ago these days. But that takes a lot of magic. And you could talk to demons, I believe. And there were rules.’
‘Never heard o’ a hiver talkin’/ said Billy. ‘Or obeyin’ rules.’
‘But why would it want Tiffany?’ said Miss Level. ‘She’s not powerful!’
‘She has the power o’ the land in her,’ said Rob Anybody stoutly. ‘ ‘Tis a power that
comes at need, not for doin’ wee conjurin’ tricks. We seen it, mistress!’
‘But Tiffany doesn’t do any magic,’ said Miss Level, helplessly. ‘She’s very bright but she
can’t even make a shamble. You must be wrong about that.’
‘Any o’ youse lads seen the hag do any hagglin’ lately?’ Rob Anybody demanded.
There were a lot of shaken heads, and a shower of beads, beetles, feathers and
miscellaneous head items.
‘Do you spy- I mean, do you watch over her all the time?’ said Miss Level, slightly
horrified.
‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob, airily. ‘No’ in the privy, o’course. An’ it’s getting harder in her