hit an enemy.
The sun was going down and the shadows were moving and the turf was dying.
Rob charged.
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .
What happened during the Nac Mac Feegles’ search for the right smell was
remembered by several witnesses (quite apart from all the owls and bats who were left
spinning in the air by a broomstick being navigated by a bunch of screaming little blue
men).
One of them was Number 95, a ram owned by a not very imaginative farmer. But
all he remembered was a sudden noise in the night and a draughty feeling on his back.
That was about as exciting as it got for Number 95, so he went back to thinking about
grass.
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .
Then there was Mildred Pusher, aged seven, who was the daughter of the farmer
who owned Number 95. One day, when she’d grown up and become a grandmother,
she told her grandchildren about the night she came downstairs by candlelight for a
drink of water and heard the noises under the sink . . .
‘And there were these little voices, you see, and one said, “Ach, Wullie, you cannae
drink that, look, it says ‘Poison!!’ on the bottle,” and another voice said, “Aye,
gonnagle, they put that on tae frighten a man from havin’ a wee drink,” and the first
voice said, “Wullie, it’s rat poison!” and the second voice said, “That’s fine, then,
‘cos I’m no’ a rat!” And then I opened the cupboard under the sink and, what do you
think, it was full of fairies! And they looked at me and I looked at them and one of
them said, “Hey, this is a dream you’re having, big wee girl!” and immediately they all
agreed! And the first one said, “So, in this dream ye’re having, big wee girl, you wouldna mind telling us where the turpentine is, wouldya?” And so I told them it was outside in
the barn, and he said, “Aye? Then we’re offski. But here’s a wee gift fra’ the fairies
for a big wee girl who’s gonna go right back tae sleep!” And then they were gone!’
One of her grandchildren, who’d been listening with his mouth open, said, ‘What did
they give you, Grandma?’
‘This!’ Mildred held up a silver spoon. ‘And the strange thing is, it’s just like the
ones my mother had, which vanished mysteriously from the drawer the very same
night! I’ve kept it safe ever since!’
This was admired by all. Then one of the grandchildren asked: ‘What were the
fairies like, Grandma?’
Grandma Mildred thought about this. ‘Not as pretty as you might expect,’ she said
at last. ‘But definitely more smelly. And just after they’d gone there was a sound like-‘
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .
People in the King’s Legs (the owner had noticed that there were lots of inns and
pubs called the King’s Head or the King’s Arms, and spotted a gap in the market)
looked up when they heard the noise outside.
After a minute or two the door burst open.
‘Good night to ye, fellow bigjobs!’ roared a figure in the doorway.
The room fell horribly silent. Awkwardly, legs going in every direction, the
scarecrow figure wove unsteadily towards the bar and grabbed it thankfully, hanging on
as it sagged onto its knees.
‘A big huge wee drop o’ yer finest whisky, me fine fellow barman fellow,’ it said from somewhere under the hat.
‘It seems to me that you’ve already had enough to drink, friend,’ said the barman,
whose hand had
crept to the cudgel he kept under the bar for special customers.
‘Who’re ye calling “friend”, pal?’ roared the figure, trying to pull itself up. That’s
fightin’ talk, that is! And I havenae had enough to drink, pal, ‘cos if I have, why’ve I
still got all this money, eh? Answer me that!’
A hand sagged into a coat pocket, came out jerkily and slammed down onto the top of
the bar. Ancient gold coins rolled in every direction and a couple of silver spoons
dropped out of the sleeve.
The silence of the bar became a lot deeper. Dozens of eyes watched the shiny discs as
they spun off the bar and rolled across the floor.
‘An’ I want an ounce o’ Jolly Sailor baccy,’ said the figure.
‘Why, certainly, sir,’ said the barman, who had been brought up to be respectful to
gold coins. He felt under the bar and his expression changed.
‘Oh. I’m sorry, sir, we’ve sold out. Very popular, Jolly Sailor. But we’ve got plenty of-
‘
The figure had already turned round to face the rest of the room.
‘OK, I’ll gi’e a handful o’ gold to the first scunner who gi’es me a pipeful o’ Jolly
Sailor!’ it yelled.
The room erupted. Tables scraped. Chairs overturned.
The scarecrow man grabbed the first pipe and threw the coins into the air. As fights
immediately broke out, he turned back to the bar and said:
‘And I’ll ha’ that wee drop o’ whisky before I go, barman. Ach, no you willnae, Big
Yan! Shame on ye! Hey, youse legs can shut up right noo! A wee pint of whisky’ll
do us no harm! Oh, aye? Who deid and made ye Big Man, eh? Listen, ye scunner, oor Rob is
in there! Aye, and he’d have a wee drink, too!’
The customers stopped pushing one another out of the way to get at the coins, and
got up to face a whole body arguing with itself.
‘Anywa’, I’m in the heid, right? The heid’s in charge. I dinnae ha’ tae listen to a
bunch o’ knees! I said this wuz a bad idea, Wullie, ye ken we ha’ trouble getting oot of pubs!
Well, speaking on behalf o’ the legs, we’re not gonna stand by and watch the heid get
pished, thank ye so veerae much!’
To the horror of the customers the entire bottom half of the figure turned round and
started to walk towards the door, causing the top half to fall forward. It gripped the edge
of the bar desperately, managed to say, ‘OK! Is a deep-fried pickled egg totally oot o’ the
question?’ and then the figure –
– tore itself in half. The legs staggered a few steps towards the door, and fell over.
In the shocked silence a voice from somewhere in the trousers said: ‘Crivens! Time for
offski!’
The air blurred for a moment and the door slammed.
After a while one of the customers stepped forward cautiously and prodded the heap
of old clothes
and sticks that was all that remained of the visitor. The hat rolled off and he jumped back.
A glove that was still hanging onto the bar fell onto the floor with a thwap! that
sounded very loud.
‘Well, look at it this way,’ said the barman. ‘Whatever it was, at least it’s left its
pockets-‘
From outside came the sound of:
The broomstick hit the thatched roof of Miss Level’s cottage hard, and stuck in it.
Feegles fell off, still fighting.
In a struggling, punching mass they rolled into the cottage, conducted guerrilla
warfare all the way up the stairs and ended up in a head-butting, kicking heap in
Tiffany’s bedroom, where those who’d been left behind to guard the sleeping girl and
Miss Level joined in out of interest.
Gradually, the fighters became aware of a sound. It was the skirl of the mousepipes,
cutting through the battle like a sword. Hands stopped gripping throats, fists stopped in
mid-punch, kicks hovered in mid-air.
Tears ran down Awf’ly Wee Billy’s face as he played The Bonny Flowers, the
saddest song in the world. It was about home, and mothers, and good times gone past,
and faces no longer there. The Feegles let go of one another and stared down at their
feet as the forlorn notes wound about them, speaking of betrayal and treachery and the
breaking of promises-
‘Shame on ye!’ screamed Awf’ly Wee Billy, letting the pipe drop out of his mouth.
‘Shame on ye! Traitors! Betrayers! Ye shame hearth and hame! Your hag is fightin’ for
her verra soul! Have ye no honour?’ He flung down the mousepipes, which wailed
into silence. ‘I curse my feets that let me stand here in front o’ ye! Ye shame the
verra sun shinin’ on ye! Ye shame the kelda that birthed ye! Traitors! Scuggans! What
ha’ I done to be among this parcel o’ rogues? Any man here want tae fight? Then fight
me! Aye, fight me! An’ I swear by the harp o’ bones I’ll tak’ him tae the deeps o’ the sea an’
then kick him tae the craters o’ the moon an’ see him ride tae the Pit o’ Heel itself on a saddle
made o’ hedgehogs! I tell ye, my rage is the strength of the storm that tears mountains
intae sand! Who among ye will stand agin me?’
Big Yan, who was almost three times the size of Awf’ly Wee Billy, cowered back as the