‘Was she your mother too?’ said Tiffany quietly.
‘Nay. She was my sister. Did she no’ tell ye that when a kelda goes to a new clan she takes a few o’ her brothers with her? To be alone amongst strangers would be too much for a heart to bear.’ The gonnagle sighed. ‘Of course, in time, after the kelda weds, the clan is full of her sons and is no’ so lonely for her.’
‘It must be for you, though,’ said Tiffany.
‘You’re a quick one, I’ll grant ye that,’ said William. ‘I am the last o’ those who came. When this is o’er I’ll seek the leave of the next kelda to return to my ain folk in the mountains. This is a fiiine fat country and this is a fiiine bonny clan my nephews have, but I would like to die in the heather where I was borrrned. If you will excuse me, Kelda.’
He walked away and was lost in the shadows of the mound.
Tiffany suddenly wanted to go home. Perhaps it was just William’s sadness, but now she felt shut up in the mound.
‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ she muttered.
‘Good idea,’ said the toad. ‘You’ve got to find the place where the time is different, for one thing.’
‘But how can I do that?’ wailed Tiffany. ‘You can’t see time!’
She stuck her arms through the entrance hole and pulled herself up into the fresh air . . .
There was a big old clock in the farmhouse, and the time on it got set once a week. That is, when her father went to the market in Creel Springs he made a note of the position of the hands on the big clock there, and when he got home he moved the hands on their clock to the same position. It was really just for show, anyway. Everyone took their time from the sun, and the sun couldn’t go wrong.
Now Tiffany lay amongst the trunks of the old thorn bushes, whose leaves rustled continuously in the breeze. The mound was like a little island in the endless turf; late primroses and even a few ragged foxgloves grew up here in the shelter of the thorn roots. Her apron lay beside her where she had left it earlier.
‘She could have just told me where to look,’ she said.
‘But she didn’t know where it would be,’ said the toad. ‘She just knew the signs to look for.’
Tiffany rolled over carefully and stared up at the sky between the low branches. It’ll shine out, the kelda had said . . .
‘I think I ought to talk to Hamish,’ she said.
‘Right ye are, mistress,’ said a voice by her ear. She turned her head.
‘How long have you been there?’ she said.
‘A’ the time, mistress,’ said the pictsie. Others poked their heads around the trees and out from under leaves. There were at least twenty on the mound.
‘You’ve been watching me all the time?’
‘Aye, mistress. ‘Tis oour task to watch o’er our kelda. I’m up here most o’ the time anyway, because I’m studying to become a gonnagle.’ The young Feegle flourished a set of mousepipes. ‘An’ they willnae let me play doon there on account o’ them sayin’ my playin’ sounds like a spider tryin’ to fart through its ears, mistress.’
‘But what happens if I want to spend a— have a— go to the— What happens if I say I don’t want you to guard me?’
‘If it’s a wee call o’ nature ye’re talkin’ aboout, mistress, the cludgie is o’er there in the chalk pit. Yell just sing oot to us where ye’re goin’ and no one’ll go peeking, yell have oour word on it,’ said the attendant Feegle.
Tiffany glared at him as he stood in the primroses, beaming with pride and anxious duty. He was younger than most of them, without as many scars and lumps. Even his nose wasn’t broken.
‘What’s your name, pictsie?’ she said.
‘No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress. There’s no’ that many Feegle names, ye ken, so we ha’ to share.’
‘Well, Not-as-big-as-Little-Jock—’ Tiffany began.
‘That’d be Medium-Sized Jock, mistress,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
‘Well, Not-as-big-as-Medium- Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock, I can—’
‘That’s No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. ‘Ye were one jock short,’ he added helpfully.
‘You wouldn’t be happier with, say, Henry?’ said Tiffany, helplessly.
‘Ach, nay, mistress.’ Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock wrinkled his face. There’s nay history tae the name, ye ken. But there have been a number o’ brave warriors called No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. Why ‘tis nearly as famous a name as Wee Jock itself! An’, o’ course, should Wee Jock hisself be taken back to the Last World then I’ll get the name o’ Wee Jock, which isnae to say that I mislike the name o’ No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, ye ken. There’s been many a fine story o’ the exploits o’ No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock,’ the pictsie added, looking so earnest that Tiffany didn’t have the heart to say that they must have been very long stories.
Instead she said: ‘Well, er, please, I want to talk to Hamish the aviator.’
‘Nae problem,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. ‘He’s up there right noo.’
He vanished. A moment later Tiffany heard – or, rather, felt with her ears – the bubbling sensation of a Feegle whistle.
Tiffany pulled Diseases of the Sheep, which was now looking very battered, out of her apron. There was a blank page at the back. She tore it out, feeling like a criminal for doing so, and took out her pencil.
Dear Mum and Dad,
How are you, I am well. Wentworth is also well but I have to go and fetch him from the Qu where he is staying. Hop to be back soon.
Tiffany
PS I hope the cheese is all right.
She was just considering this when she heard a rush of wings overhead. There was a whirring noise, a moment of silence and then a small, weary and rather muffled voice said: ‘Ach, cravens.’
She looked out onto the turf. The body of Hamish was upside down a few feet away. His arms with their twirlers were still outstretched.*
* No words could describe what a Feegle in a kilt looks like upside down, so they won’t try.
It took some time to get him out. If he landed headfirst and spinning, Tiffany was told, he had to be unscrewed in the opposite direction so that his ears didn’t come off.
When he was upright and swaying unsteadily, Tiffany said: ‘Can you wrap this letter in a stone and drop it in front of the farmhouse where people will see it?’
‘Aye, mistress.’
‘And . . . er . . . does it hurt when you land headfirst like that?’
‘Nay, mistress, but it is awfu’ embarrassing.’
‘Then there’s a sort of toy we used to make that might help you,’ said Tiffany. ‘You make a kind of. . . bag of air—’
‘Bag o’ air?’ said the aviator, looking puzzled.
‘Well, you know how things like shirts billow out on a washing line when it’s windy? Well, you just make a cloth bag and tie some strings to it and a stone to the strings, and when you throw it up the bag fills with air and the stone floats down.’
Hamish stared at her.
‘Do you understand me?’ said Tiffany.
‘Oh, aye. I wuz just waitin’ to see if you wuz goin’ to tell me anything else,’ said Hamish politely.
‘Do you think you could, er, borrow some fine cloth?’
‘Nay, mistress, but I ken well where I can steal some,’ said Hamish.
Tiffany decided not to comment on this. She said: ‘Where was the Queen when the mist came down?’
Hamish pointed. ‘Aboot a half mile yonder, mistress.’
In the distance Tiffany could see some more mounds, and a few stones from the old days.
Trilithons, they were called, which just meant ‘three stones’. The only stones found naturally on the downs were flints, which were never very big. But the stones of the trilithons had been dragged from at least ten miles away, and were stacked like a child stacks toy bricks. Here and there the big stones had been stood in circles; sometimes one stone had been placed all alone. It must have taken a lot of people a long time to do all that. Some people said there’d been human sacrifices up there. Some said they were part of some old religion. Some said they marked ancient graves.
Some said they were a warning: avoid this place.
Tiffany hadn’t. She’d been there with her sisters a few times, as a dare, just in case there were any skulls. But the mounds around the stones were thousands of years old. All that you found there now were rabbit holes.
‘Anything else, mistress?’ said Hamish politely. ‘Nay? Then I’ll just be goin’. . .’
He raised his arms over his head and started to run across the turf. Tiffany jumped as the buzzard skimmed down a few yards away from her and snatched him back up into the sky.