– a dozen Nac Mac Feegle dived for cover – ‘and she just exploded into nothing! It was
me\ I remember!’
‘Aye, but the big hag o’ hags said it wuz usin’ your mind tae think with-‘ Daft Wullie began.
‘I’ve got the memories! It was me, with this hand!’ The Feegles who had raised their
heads ducked back down again. ‘And . . . the memories I’ve got . . . I remember dust, turning into stars . . . things . . . the heat . . . blood . . . the taste of blood . . . I remember
. . . I remember the see-me trick! Oh, no! I practically invited it in! I killed Miss Level!’
Shadows were closing in around her vision, and there was a ringing in her ears.
Tiffany heard the door swing open and hands picked her up as though she was as light
as a bubble. She was slung over a shoulder and carried swiftly down the stairs and out
into the bright morning, where she was swung down onto the ground.
‘. . . And all of us . . . we killed her . . . take one crucible of silver . . .’ she mumbled.
A hand slapped her sharply across the face. She stared through inner mists at the tall
dark figure in front of her. A bucket handle was pressed firmly into her hand.
‘Milk the goats now, Tiffany! Now, Tiffany, d’you hear! The trusting creatures look to
you! They wait for you! Tiffany milks the goats. Do it, Tiffany! The hands know how,
the mind will remember and grow stronger, Tiffany!’
She was thrust down onto the milking stool and, through the mist in her head,
made out the cowering shape of. . . of. . . Black Meg.
The hands remembered. They placed the pail, g rasp ed a tea t an d th en , as Meg
raised a l eg to play the foot-in-the-bucket game, grabbed it and forced it safely
back down onto the milking platform.
She worked slowly, her head full of hot fog, letting her hands have their way. Buckets
were filled and emptied, milked goats got a bucket of feed from the bin . . .
Sensibility Bustle was rather puzzled that his hands were milking a goat. He stopped.
‘What is your name?’ said a voice behind him.
‘Bustle. Sensibil-
‘No! That was the wizard, Tiffany! He was the
strongest echo, but you’re not him! Get into the dairy, TIFFANY!’
She stumbled into the cool room under the command of that voice and the world
focused. There was a foul cheese on the slab, sweating and stinking.
‘Who put this here?’ she asked.
‘The hiver did, Tiffany. Tried to make a cheese by magic, Tiffany. Hah!’ said the voice.
‘And you are not it, Tiffany! You know how to make cheese the right way, don’t you,
Tiffany? Indeed you do! What is your name?’
. . . all was confusion and strange smells. In panic, she roared-
Her face was slapped again.
‘No, that was the sabre-toothed tiger, Tiffany! They’re all just old memories the
hiver left behind, Tiffany! It’s worn a lot of creatures but they are not you! Come
forward, Tiffany!’
She heard the words without really understanding them. They were just out there
somewhere, between people who were just shadows. But it was unthinkable to disobey
them.
‘Drat!’ said the hazy tall figure. ‘Where’s that little blue feller? Mister Anyone?’
‘Here, mistress. It’s Rob Anybody, mistress. I beg o’ ye not tae turn me intae
somethin’ unnatural, mistress!’
‘You said she had a box of keepsakes. Fetch it down here this minute. I feared this
might happen. I hates doin’ it this way!’
Tiffany was turned round and once again looked into the blurry face while strong
hands gripped her arms. Two blue eyes stared into hers. They shone in the mist like
sapphires.
‘What’s your name, Tiffany?’ said the voice.
‘Tiffany!’
The eyes bored into her. ‘Is it? Really? Sing me the first song you ever learned, Tiffany!
Now!’
‘Hzan, hzana, m’taza-‘
‘Stop! That was never learned on a chalk hill! You ain’t Tiffany! I reckon you’re that
desert queen who killed twelve of her husbands with scorpion sandwiches! Tiffany is
the one I’m after! Back into the dark with you!’
Things went blurry again. She could hear whispered discussions through the fog and the
voice said: ‘Well, that might work. What’s your name, pictsie?’
‘Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle, mistress.’
‘You’re very small, aren’t you?’
‘Only for my height, mistress.’
The grip tightened on Tiffany’s arms again. The blue eyes glinted.
‘What does your name mean in the Old Speech of the Nac Mac Feegle, Tiffany? Think
. . .’
It rose from the depths of her mind, trailing the fog behind it. It came up through the
clamouring voices and lifted her beyond the reach of ghostly hands. Ahead, the clouds
parted.
‘My name is Land Under Wave,’ said Tiffany and slumped forward.
‘No, no, none of that, we can’t have that,’ said the figure holding her. ‘You’ve slept
enough. Good, you know who you are! Now you must be up and doing! You must be
Tiffany as hard as you may, and the other voices will leave you alone, depend on it.
Although it might be a good idea if you don’t make sandwiches for a while.’
She did feel better. She’d said her name. The clamouring in her head had calmed
down, although it was still a chatter that made it hard to think straight. But now at
least she could see clearly. The black-dressed figure holding her wasn’t tall, but she was
so good at acting as if she was that it tended to fool most people.
‘Oh . . . you’re . . . Mistress Weatherwax?’
Mistress Weatherwax pushed her down gently into a chair. From every flat surface
in the kitchen, the Nac Mac Feegles watched Tiffany.
‘I am. And a fine mess we have here. Rest for a moment and then we must be up and
doing-‘
‘Good morning, ladies. Er, how is she?’
Tiffany turned her head. Miss Level stood in the door. She looked pale and she was
walking with a stick.
‘I was lying in bed and I thought, Well, there’s no reason to stay up here feeling sorry
for myself,’ she said.
Tiffany stood up. ‘I’m so sor-‘ she began, but Miss Level waved a hand vaguely.
‘Not your fault,’ she said, sitting down heavily at
the table. ‘How are you? And, for that matter, who are you?’
Tiffany blushed. ‘Still me, I think,’ she mumbled.
‘I got here last night and saw to Miss Level,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Watched
over you, too, girl. You talked in your sleep or, rather, Sensibility Bustle did, what’s left
of him. That ol’ wizard was quite helpful, for something that’s nothing much more’n a
bunch of memories and habits.’
‘I don’t understand about the wizard,’ said Tiffany. ‘Or the desert queen.’
‘Don’t you?’ said the witch. ‘Well, a hiver collects people. Tries to add them
to itself, you might say, use them to think with. Dr Bustle was studying them
hundreds of years ago, and set a trap to catch one. It got him instead, silly fool.
It killed him in the end. It gets ’em all killed in the end. They go mad, one way or
the other, they stop remembering what they shouldn’t do. But it keeps a sort of
. . . pale copy of them, a sort of living memory. . .’ She looked at Tiffany’s puzzled
expression and shrugged. ‘Something like a ghost,’ she said.
‘And it’s left ghosts in my head?’
‘More like ghosts of ghosts, really,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Something we don’t
have a word for, maybe.’
Miss Level shuddered. ‘Well, thank goodness you’ve got rid of the thing, at least,’
she quavered. ‘Would anyone like a nice cup of tea?’
‘Ach, leave that tae us!’ shouted Rob Anybody, leaping up. ‘Daft Wullie, you an’ the
boys mak’ some tea for the ladies!’
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Level weakly, as a clattering began behind her. ‘I feel so clum-
what? I thought you broke all the teacups when you did the washing up!’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob cheerfully. ‘But Wullie found a whole load o’ old ones shut awa’ in
a cupboard-‘
‘That very valuable bone china was left to me by a very dear friend!’ shouted Miss Level.
She sprang to her feet and turned towards the sink. With amazing speed for
someone who was partly dead she snatched teapot, cup and saucer from the
surprised pictsies and held them up as high as she could.
‘Crivens!’ said Rob Anybody, staring at the crockery. ‘Now that’s what I call
hagglin’!’
‘I’m sorry to be rude, but they’re of great sentimental value!’ said Miss Level.
‘Mister Anybody, you and your men will kindly get away from Miss Level and shut