He looked up again. ‘OK, they say . . . that’s the snake, an’ that’s the kinda like
a gate letter, an’ the comb on its side, two o’ that, an’ the fat man standin’ still,
an’ the snake again, and then there’s whut we calls a “space” and then there’s the
letter like a saw’s teeth, and two o’ the letters that’s roound like the sun, and the letter
that’s a man sittin’ doon, and onna next line we ha’ . . . the man wi’ his arms oot, and
the letter that’s you, an’ ha, the fat man again but noo he’s walkin, an’ next he’s
standin’ still again, an’ next is the comb, an’ the up-an’-doon ziggy-zaggy letter, and
the man’s got his arms oot, and then there’s me, and that ziggy-zaggy and we end
the line with the comb again . . . an’ on the next line we starts wi’ the bendy hook,
that’s the letter roound as the sun, them’s twa’ men sittin’ doon, there’s the
letter reaching ooot tae the sky! then there’s a space ‘cos there’s nae letter,
then there’s the snaky again, an’ the letter like a hoose frame, and then there’s the
letter that’s me, aye, an’ another fella sitting doon, an’ another big roound letter,
and, ha, oor ol’ friend, the fat man walkin’! The End!’
He stood back, hands on hips, and demanded: There! Is that readin’ I just did, or
wuz it no’?’
There was a cheer from the Feegles, and some applause.
Awf’ly Wee Billy looked up at the chalked words:
And then he looked at Rob Anybody’s expression.
‘Aye, aye,’ he said, ‘Ye’re doin great, Mr Rob. Sheep’s wool, turpentine and Jolly
Sailor tobacco.’
‘Ach, weel, anyone can read it all in one go,’ said Rob Anybody, dismissively. ‘But
youse gotta be guid to break it doon intae all the tricksie letters. And veera guid to have the knowin’ o’ the meanin’ o’ the whole.’
‘What is that?’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy.
‘The meaning, gonnagle, is that you are gonna’ go stealin’ There was a cheer from
the rest of the Feegles. They hadn’t been keeping up very well, but they recognized that
word all right.
‘An’ it’s gonna be a stealin’ tae remember!’ Rob yelled, to another cheer. ‘Daft
Wullie!’
‘Aye!’
‘Ye’ll be in charge! Ye ha’ not got the brains o’ a beetle, brother o’ mine, but when it
comes tae the thievin’ ye hae no equal in this wurld! Ye’ve got tae fetch turpentine and
fresh ship wool and some o’ the Jolly Sailor baccy! Ye got tae get them to the big hag wi’
twa’ bodies! Tell her she must mak’ the hiver smell them, right? It’ll bring it here! And
ye’d best be quick, because that sun is movin’ down the sky. Ye’ll be stearin’ fra’ Time
itself – aye? Ye have a question?’
Daft Wullie had raised a finger.
‘Point o’ order, Rob,’ he said, ‘but it was a wee bittie hurtful there for you to say I
dinnae hae the brains of a beetle
Rob hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Aye, Daft Wullie, ye are right in whut ye say. It was unricht o’ me to say that. It was the heat o’ the moment, an’ I am full sorry for it.
As I stand here before ye now, I will say: Daft Wullie, ye do hae the brains o’ a
beetle, an’ I’ll fight any scunner who says different!’
Daft Wullie’s face broke into a huge smile, then crinkled into a frown. ‘But ye are the
leader, Rob,’ he said.
‘No’ on this raid, Wullie. A’m staying here. I have every confidence that ye’ll be a
fiiinne leader on this raid an’ not totally mess it up like ye did the last seventeen times!’
There was a general groan from the crowd.
‘Look at the sun, will ye!’ said Rob, pointing. ‘It’s moved since we’ve been talkin’!
Someone’s got tae stay wi’ her! I will no’ ha’ it said we left her tae die
alone! Now, get movin’, ye scunners, or feel the flat o’ my blade!’
He raised his sword and growled. They fled.
Rob Anybody laid his sword down with care, then sat on the step of the shepherding
hut to watch the sun.
After a while, he was aware of something else . . .
Hamish the aviator gave Miss Level’s broomstick a doubtful look. It hung a few feet
above the ground and it worried him.
He hitched up the bundle on his back that contained his parachute, although it
was technically the ‘paradrawers’, since it was made of string and an old pair of
Tiffany’s best Sunday drawers, well washed. They still had flowers on, but there was
nothing like them for getting a Feegle safely to the ground. He had a feeling it (or they)
were going to be needed.
‘It’s no’ got feathers,’ he complained.
‘Look, we dinnae ha’ time to argue!’ said Daft Wullie. ‘We’re in a hurry, ye ken, an’
you’re the only one who knows how tae fly!’
‘A broomstick isnae flyin’,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s magic. It hasnae any wings! I dinnae ken
that stuff!’
But Big Yan had already thrown a piece of string over the bristle end of the stick and
was climbing up. Other Feegles followed.
‘Besides, how do they steer these things?’ Hamish went on.
‘Weel, how do ye do it with wi’ the birdies?’ Daft Wullie demanded.
‘Oh, that’s easy. Ye just shift your weight, but-‘
‘Ach, yell learn as we go,’ said Wullie. ‘Flying can-nae be that difficult. Even ducks can
do it, and they have nae brains at a’.’
And there was really no point in arguing, which is why, a few minutes later, Hamish
inched his way along the stick’s handle. The rest of the Feegles clung to the bristles at
the other end, chattering.
Firmly tied to the bristles was a bundle of what looked like sticks and rags, with a
battered hat and the stolen beard on top of it.
At least this extra weight meant that the stick end was pointing up, towards a gap in
the fruit trees. Hamish sighed, took a deep breath, pulled his goggles over his eyes and put
a hand on a shiny area of stick just in front of him.
Gently, the stick began to move through the air. There was a cheer from the Feegles.
‘See? Told yez ye’d be OK,’ Daft Wullie called out. ‘But can ye no’ make it go a wee
bit faster?’
Carefully, Hamish touched the shiny area again.
The stick shuddered, hung motionless for a moment, and then shot upwards
trailing a noise very like Arrrrrrrrrgg00ggg0gg0ghhhh.hhhhhh.hhhh . . .
In the silent world of Tiffany’s head, Rob Anybody picked up his sword again and crept
across the darkening turf.
There was something there, small but moving.
It was a tiny thorn bush, growing so fast that its twigs visibly moved. Its shadow
danced on the grass.
Rob Anybody stared at it. It had to mean something. He watched it carefully.
Little bush, growing . . .
And then he remembered what the old kelda had told them when he’d been a wee
boy.
Once, the land had been all forest, heavy and dark. Then men came and cut down trees.
They let the sun in. The grass grew up in the clearings. The bigjobs brought in sheep,
which ate the grass, and also what grew in the grass: tree seedlings. And so the dark
forests died. There hadn’t been much life in them, not once the tree trunks closed in
behind you; it had been dark as the bottom of the sea in there, the leaves far above
keeping out the light. Sometimes there was the crash of a branch, or the rattle and
patter as acorns the squirrels had missed bounced down, from branch to branch, into
the gloom. Mostly it was just hot and silent. Around the edges of the forest were the
homes of many creatures. Deep inside the forest, the everlasting forest, was the home of
wood.
But the turf lived in the sun, with its hundreds of grasses and flowers and birds and
insects. The Nac Mac Feegle knew that better than most, being so much closer to it.
What looked like a green desert at a distance was a tiny, thriving, roaring jungle . . .
‘Ach,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘So that’s yer game, izzit?
Weel, ye’re no’ takin’ over in here too!’
He chopped at the spindly thing with his sword, and stood back.
The rustling of leaves behind him made him turn.
There were two more saplings unfolding. And a third. He looked across the grass
and saw a dozen, a hundred tiny trees beginning their race for the sky.
Worried though he was, and he was worried to his boots, Rob Anybody grinned. If
there’s one thing a Feegle likes, it’s knowing that wherever you strike you’re going to