‘How can a man six inches high train a bird like that?’ she asked as the buzzard circled again for height.
‘Ach, all it takes is a wee drop o’ kindness, mistress,’ said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock -but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
‘Really?’
‘Aye, an’ a big dollop o’ cruelty,’ Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized- Jock-but-bigger- than- Wee- Jock-Jock went on. ‘Hamish trains ‘em by runnin’ aroound in a rabbit skin until a bird pounces on him.’
‘That sounds awful!’ said Tiffany.
‘Ach, he’s not too nasty aboot it. He just knocks them out wi’ his heid, and then he’s got a special oil he makes which he blows up their beak,’ Not-as-big -as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock went on. ‘When they wakes up, they thinks he’s their mammy and’ll do his biddin’.’
The buzzard was already a distant speck.
‘He hardly seems to spend any time on the ground!’ said Tiffany.
‘Oh, aye. He sleeps in the buzzard’s nest at night, mistress. He says it’s wunnerfully warm. An’ he spends all his time in the air,’ Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock added. ‘He’s ne’er happy unless he’s got the wind under his kilt.’
‘And the birds don’t mind?’
‘Ach, no, mistress. All the birds and beasts up here know it’s good luck to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle, mistress.’
‘They do?’
‘Well, to tell ye the truth, mistress, it’s more that they know it’s unlucky not to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle.’
Tiffany looked at the sun. It was only a few hours away from setting.
‘I must find the way in,’ she said. ‘Look, Not-as-small-as—’
‘No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress,’ said the pictsie, patiently.
‘Yes, yes, thank you. Where is Rob Anybody? Where is everybody, in fact?’
The young pictsie looked a bit embarrassed.
‘There’s a bit o’ a debate goin’ on down below, mistress,’ he said.
‘Well, we have got to find my brother, OK? I am the kelda in this vicinity, yes?’
‘It’s a wee bit more comp-li-cat-ed than that, mistress. They’re, er, discussin’ ye . . .’
‘Discussing what about me?’
Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock looked as if he really didn’t want to be standing there.
‘Um, they’re discussing . . . er . . . they . . .’
Tiffany gave up. The pictsie was blushing. Since he was blue to begin with, this turned him an unpleasant violet colour. ‘I’ll go back down the hole. Give my boots a push, will you, please?’
She slid down the dry dirt and Feegles scattered in the cave below as she landed.
When her eyes got accustomed to the gloom once more she saw that the galleries were crowded with pictsies again. Some of them were in the middle of washing, and many of them had, for some reason, smoothed down their red hair with grease. They all started at her as if caught in the act of something dreadful.
‘We ought to be going if we’re to follow the Queen,’ she said, looking down at Rob Anybody, who’d been washing his face in a basin made of half a walnut shell. Water dripped off his beard, which he’d plaited up. There were three plaits in his long hair now, too. If he turned suddenly he could probably whip somebody to death.
‘Ach, weel,’ he said, ‘there’s a wee matter we got tae sort oout, Kelda.’ He twiddled the tiny facecloth in his hands. When Rob Anybody twiddled, he was worried.
‘Yes?’ said Tiffany.
‘Er . . . will ye no’ ha’ a cup o’ tea?’ said Rob Anybody, and a pictsie staggered forward with a big gold cup that, once, must have been made for a king.
Tiffany took it. She was thirsty, after all. There was a sigh from the crowd when she sipped the tea. It was actually quite good.
‘We stole a bag o’ it fra’ a pedlar who was asleep down by the high road,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Good stuff, eh?’ He patted down his hair with his wet hands.
Tiffany’s cup stopped halfway to her lips. Perhaps the pictsies didn’t realize how loudly they whispered, because her ear was on a level with a conversation.
‘Ach, she’s a bit on the big side, no offence to her.’
‘Aye, but a kelda has to be big, ye ken, to have lots of wee babbies.’
‘Aye, fair enough, big wimmin is a’ very well, but if a laddie was to try tae cuddle this one he’d had tae leave a chalk mark to show where he left off yesterday.’
‘An’ she’s a bit young.’
‘She neednae have any babbies yet, then. Or mebbe not too many at a time, say. Nae more than ten, mebbe.’
‘Crivens, lads, what’re ye talkin’ aboout? ‘Tis Rob Anybody she ‘II choose anyway. Ye can see the big man’s poor wee knees knocking fra’ here!’
Tiffany lived on a farm. Any little beliefs that babies are delivered by storks or found under bushes tend to get sorted out early on if you live on a farm, especially when a cow is having a difficult calving in the middle of the night. And she’d helped with the lambing, when small hands could be very useful in difficult cases. She knew all about the bags of red chalk the rams had strapped to their chests, and why you knew later on that the ewes with the red smudges on their backs were going to be mothers in the spring. It’s amazing what a child who is quiet and observant can learn, and this includes things people don’t think she is old enough to know.
Her eye spotted Fion, on the other side of the hall. She was smiling in a worrying way.
‘What’s happening, Rob Anybody?’ she said, laying the words down carefully.
‘Ah, weel . . . it’s the clan rules, ye ken,’ said the Feegle, awkwardly. ‘Ye being the new kelda an’, an’, weel, we’re bound to ask ye, see, nae matter what we feel, we gotta ask ye mutter mutter mutter He stepped back quickly.
‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ said Tiffany.
‘We’ve scrubbed up nice, ye ken,’ Rob Anybody said. ‘Some o’ the lads actually had a bath in the dewpond, e’en though ‘tis only May, and Big Yan washed under his arms for the first time ever, and Daft Wullie has picked ye a bonny bunch of flowers.’
Daft Wullie stepped forward, swollen with nervous pride, and thrust the aforesaid bouquet into the air. They probably had been nice flowers, but he didn’t have much idea of what a bunch was or how you picked one. Stems and leaves and dropping petals stuck out of his fist in all directions.
‘Very nice,’ said Tiffany, taking another sip of the tea.
‘Guid, guid,’ said Rob Anybody, wiping his forehead. ‘So mebbe you’d like tae tell us mutter mutter mutter . . .’
‘They want to know which one of them you’re going to marry,’ said Fion loudly. ‘It’s the rules. Ye have to choose, or quit as kelda. Ye have to choose yer man an’ name the day.’
‘Aye,’ said Rob Anybody, not meeting Tiffany’s eye.
Tiffany held the cup perfectly steady, but only because suddenly she couldn’t move a muscle. She was thinking: Aaargh! This is not happening to me! I can’t— He couldn’t— We wouldn’t— They’re not even— This is ridiculous! Run away!
But she was aware of hundreds of nervous faces in the shadows. How you deal with this is going to be important, said her Second Thoughts. They’re all watching you. And Fion wants to see what you’ll do. You really didn’t ought to dislike a girl four feet shorter than you, but you do.
‘Well, this is very unexpected,’ she said, forcing herself to smile. ‘A big honour, of course.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Rob Anybody, looking at the floor.
‘And there’s so many of you it’d be so hard to choose,’ Tiffany went on, still smiling. And her Second Thoughts said: He’s not happy about it either!
‘Aye, it will that,’ said Rob Anybody.
‘I’d just like to have a little fresh air while I think about it,’ said Tiffany, and didn’t let the smile fade until she was out on the mound again.
She crouched down and peered among the primrose leaves. Toad!’ she yelled.
The toad crawled out, chewing something. ‘Hm?’ it said.
‘They want to marry me!’
‘Mm phmm ffm mm?’
‘What are you eating?’
The toad swallowed. ‘A very undernourished slug,’ it said.
‘I said they want to marry me!’
‘And?’
‘And? Well, just— Just think!’
‘Oh, right, yeah, the height thing,’ said the toad. ‘It might not seem much now, but when you’re five feet seven he’ll still be six inches high—’
‘Don’t laugh at me! I’m the kelda!’
‘Well, of course, that’s the point, isn’t it,’ said the toad. ‘As far as they’re concerned, there’s rules. The new kelda marries the warrior of her choice and settles down and has lots and lots of Feegles. It’d be a terrible insult to refuse—’
‘I am not going to marry a Feegle! I can’t have hundreds of babies! Tell me what to do!’