little gonnagle stood in front of him. Not a Feegle would have raised a hand at that
moment, for fear of his life. The rage of a gonnagle was a dreadful thing to see. A
gonnagle could use words like swords.
Daft Wullie shuffled forward.
‘I can see ye’re upset, gonnagle,’ he mumbled. “Tis me that’s at fault, on account o’
being daft. I shoulda remembered aboout us and pubs.’
He looked so dejected that Awf’ly Wee Billy calmed down a little.
‘Very well then,’ he said, but rather coldly because you can’t lose that much anger all at
once. ‘We’ll not talk aboot this again. But we will remember it, right?’ He pointed to
the sleeping shape of Tiffany. ‘Now pick up that wool, and the tobacco, and the
turpentine, understand? Someone tak’ the top off the turpentine bottle and pour a
wee drop onto a bit o’ cloth. And no one, let me mak’ myself clear, is tae drink any of
it!’
The Feegles fell over themselves to obey. There was a ripping noise as ‘the bit o’
cloth’ was obtained from the bottom of Miss Level’s dress.
‘Right,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘Daft Wullie, you tak’ all the three things and put
them up on the big wee hag’s chest, where she can smell them.’
‘How can she smell them when she’s oot cold like that?’ said Wullie.
‘The nose disnae sleep,’ said the gonnagle flatly.
The three smells of the shepherding hut were laid reverentially just below Tiffany’s
chin.
‘Noo we wait,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘We wait, and hope.’
It was hot in the little bedroom with the sleeping witches and a crowd of Feegles. It
wasn’t long before the smells of sheep’s wool, turpentine and tobacco rose and twined
and filled the air . . .
Tiffany’s nose twitched.
The nose is a big thinker. It’s good at memory -very good. So good that a smell can
take you back in memory so hard that it hurts. The brain can’t stop it.
The brain has nothing to do with it. The hiver could control brains, but it couldn’t control
a stomach that threw up when it was flown on a broomstick. And it was useless at noses.
. .
The smell of sheep’s wool, turpentine and Jolly Sailor tobacco could carry a mind away,
all the way to a silent place that was warm and safe and free from harm . . .
The hiver opened its eyes and looked around.
The shepherding hut?’ it said.
It sat up. Red light shone in through the open door, and through the trunks of the
saplings growing everywhere. Many of them were quite big now and cast long
shadows, putting the setting sun behind bars. Around the shepherding hut, though,
they had been cut down.
This is a trick,’ it said. ‘It won’t work. We are you. We think like you. We’re better
at thinking like you than you are.’
Nothing happened.
The hiver looked like Tiffany, although here it was slightly taller because Tiffany
thought she was slightly taller than she really was. It stepped out of the hut and onto
the turf.
It’s getting late,’ it said to the silence. ‘Look at the trees! This place is dying. We don’t
have to escape. Soon all this will be part of us. Everything that you really could be.
You’re proud of your little piece of ground. We can remember when there were no
worlds! We- you could change things with a wave of your hand! You could make
things right or make things wrong, and you could decide which is which! You will never
die!’
Then why are ye sweatin’, ye big heap o’ jobbies? Ach, what a scunner!’ said a voice
behind it.
For a moment the hiver wavered. Its shape changed, many times in the fractions
of a second. There were bits of scales, fins, teeth, a pointy hat, claws . . . and then it
was Tiffany again, smiling.
‘Oh, Rob Anybody, we are glad to see you,’ it said. ‘Can you help us-?’
‘Dinnae gi’ me all that swiddle!’ shouted Rob, bouncing up and down in rage. ‘I know
a hiver when I sees one! Crivens but ye’re due a kickin’!’
The hiver changed again, became a lion with teeth the size of swords and roared at
him.
‘Ach, it’s like that, is it?’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Dinnae go awa’!’ He ran a few steps
and vanished.
The hiver changed back to its Tiffany shape again.
‘Your little friend has gone,’ it said. ‘Come out now. Come out now. Why fear us?
We are you. You won’t be like the rest, the dumb animals, the stupid kings, the greedy
wizards. Together-‘
Rob Anybody returned, followed by . . . well, everyone.
‘Ye cannae die,’ he yelled. ‘But we’ll make ye wish ye could!’
They charged.
The Feegles had the advantage in most fights
because they were small and fought big enemies. If you’re small and fast you’re hard to
hit. The hiver fought back by changing shape, all the time. Swords clanged on scales,
heads butted fangs – it whirled across the turf, growling and screaming, calling up past
shapes to counter every attack. But Feegles were hard to kill. They bounced when
thrown, sprang back when trodden on and easily dodged teeth and claws. They fought
–
– and the ground shook so suddenly that even the hiver lost its footing.
The shepherding hut creaked and began to settle into the turf, which opened up
around it as easily as butter. The saplings trembled and began to fall over, one after the
other, as if their roots were being cut under the grass.
The land . . . rose.
Rolling down the shifting slope, the Feegles saw the hills climbing towards the sky.
What was there, what had always been there, become more plain.
Rising into the dark sky was a head, shoulders, a chest. . . Someone who had been
lying down, growing turf, their arms and legs the hills and valleys of the downland,
was sitting up. They moved with great stony slowness, millions of tons of hill shifting
and creaking around them. What had looked like two long mounds in the shape of a
cross became giant green arms, unfolding.
A hand with fingers longer than houses reached down, picked up the hiver and lifted it
up into the air.
Far off, something thumped three times. The sound seemed to be coming from
outside the world. The Feegles, turning and watching from the small hill that was one
of the knees of the giant girl, ignored them.
‘She tells the land whut it is, and it tells her who she is,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy, tears
running down his face. 1 cannae write a song aboot this! I’m nae good enough!’
‘Is that the big wee hag dreamin’ she’s the hills or the hills dreamin’ they’re the big wee hag?’ said Daft Wullie.
‘Both, mebbe,’ said Rob Anybody. They watched the huge hand close and winced.
‘But ye cannae kill a hiver,’ said Daft Wullie.
‘Aye, but ye can frit it awa’,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘It’s a big wee universe oot there. If I
was it, I’d no’ think o’ try in’ her again!’
There were three more booms in the distance, louder this time.
‘I think,’ he went on, ‘that’s it’s time we were off ski.’
In Miss Level’s cottage, someone was knocking heavily on the front door. Thump.
Thump. Thump.
S ?
Chapter 9
Soul ant
Tiffany opened her eyes, remembered, and thought: Was that a dream, or was that real?
And the next thought was: How do I know I’m me? Suppose I’m not me but just
think I’m me? How can I tell if I’m me or not? Who’s the ‘me’ that’s asking the question?
Am I thinking these thoughts? How would I know if it wasn’t?
‘Dinnae ask me,’ said a voice by her head. ‘Is this one of them tricksie ones?’
It was Daft Wullie. He was sitting on her pillow.
Tiffany squinted down. She was in bed in Miss Level’s cottage. A green quilt stretched
out in front of her. A quilt. Green. Not turf, not hills . . . but it looked like the
downland, from here.
‘Did I say all that aloud?’ she asked.
‘Oh, aye.’
‘Er . . . it did all happen, didn’t it?’ said Tiffany.
‘Oh, aye,’ said Daft Wullie cheerfully. ‘The big hag
wuz up here till just noo, but she said ye probably wasnae gonna wake up a
monster.’
More bits of memory landed in Tiffany’s memory like red-hot rocks landing on a
peaceful planet.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, aye/ said Daft Wullie.
‘And Miss Level?’
And this rock of memory was huge, a flaming mountain that’d make a million
dinosaurs flee for their lives. Tiffany’s hands flew to her mouth.
‘I killed her!’ she said.
‘Noo, then, ye didnae-‘
‘I did! I felt my mind thinking it. She made me angry! I just waved my hand like this’