‘Er . . . er. . .’ she said. The sense of a world beneath that had come to her when she was frightened of the Queen did not turn up so easily now. She tried to concentrate. The smell of snow . . .
It was ridiculous to talk about the smell of snow. It was just pure frozen water. But Tiffany always knew, when she woke up, if it had snowed in the night. Snow had a smell like the taste of tin. Tin did have a taste, although admittedly it tasted like the smell of snow.
She thought she heard her brain creak with the effort of thinking. If she was in a dream, she had to wake up. But it was no use running. Dreams were full of running. But there was one direction that looked . . . thin, and white.
She shut her eyes, and thought about snow, crisp and white as fresh bedsheets. She concentrated on the feel of it under her feet. All she had to do was wake up . . .
She was standing in snow.
‘Right,’ said Rob Anybody.
‘I got out!’ said Tiffany.
‘Ach, sometimes the door’s in yer ain heid,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Noo let’s move!’
Tiffany felt herself being lifted into the air. Nearby, a snoring Roland rose up on dozens of small blue legs as the Feegles got underneath him.
‘Nae stoppin’ until we get right oout o’ here!’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Feegles wha hae!’
They skimmed over the snow, with parties of Feegles running on ahead. After a minute or two Tiffany looked behind them, and saw the blue shadows spreading. They were getting darker, too.
‘Rob—’ she said.
‘Aye, I ken,’ said Rob. ‘Run, lads!’
‘They’re moving fast, Rob!’
‘I ken that, too!’
Snow stung Tiffany’s face. Trees blurred with the speed. The forest sped past. But the shadows were spreading across the path ahead and every time the party ran through them they seemed to have a certain solidity, like fog.
Now the shadows behind were night-black in the middle.
But the pictsies had passed the last tree, and the snowfields stretched ahead.
They stopped, so quickly that Tiffany almost toppled into the snow.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Where’s all oour old footprints gone?’ said Daft Wullie. They wuz there a moment ago! Which way noo?’
The trampled track that had led them on like a line had vanished.
Rob Anybody spun round and looked back at the forest. Darkness curled above it like smoke, spreading along the horizon.
‘She’s sendin’ nightmares after us,’ he growled. This is gonna be a toughie, lads.’
Tiffany saw shapes in the spreading night. She hugged Wentworth tightly.
‘Nightmares,’ repeated Rob Anybody, turning to her. ‘Ye wouldnae want to know about them. We’ll hold ‘em off. Ye must mak’ a run for it. Get awa’ wi’ ye, noo!’
‘I’ve got nowhere to run to!’ said Tiffany.
She heard a high-pitched noise, a sort of chitter-ing, insect noise, coming from the forest. The pictsies had drawn together. Usually they grinned like anything if they thought a fight was coming up, but this time they looked deadly serious.
‘Ach, she’s a bad loser, the Quin,’ said Rob.
Tiffany turned to look at the horizon behind her. The boiling blackness was there, too, a ring that was closing in from all sides.
Doors everywhere, she thought. The old kelda said there’s doors everywhere. I must find a door.
But there’s just snow and a few trees. . .
The pictsies drew their swords.
‘What, er, kind of nightmares are coming?’ said Tiffany.
‘Ach, long-leggity things with muckle legs and huge teeth, and flappy wings and a hundred eyes, that kinda stuff,’ said Daft Wullie.
‘Aye, and wuss than that,’ said Rob Anybody, staring at the speeding dark.
‘What’s worse than that?’ said Tiffany.
‘Normal stuff gone wrong,’ said Rob.
Tiffany looked blank for a moment, and then shuddered. Oh yes, she knew about those nightmares. They didn’t happen often, but they were horrible when they did. She’d woken up once shaking at the thought of Granny Aching’s boots, which had been chasing her, and another time it was a box of sugar. Anything could be a nightmare.
She could put up with monsters. But she didn’t want to face mad boots.
‘Er . . . I have an idea,’ she said.
‘So do I,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Dinnae be here, that’s my idea!’
‘There’s a clump of trees over there,’ said Tiffany.
‘So what?’ said Rob. He was staring at the line of nightmares. Things were visible in it, now – teeth, claws, eyes, ribs. From the way he was glaring it was obvious that, whatever happened later, the first few monsters were going to face a serious problem. If they had faces, anyway.
‘Can you fight nightmares?’ said Tiffany. The chittering noise was getting a lot louder.
‘There’s no’ a thing we cannae fight,’ growled Big Yan. ‘If it’s got a heid, we can gi’ it a faceful o’ dandruff. If it disnae have a heid, it’s due a good kickin’!’
Tiffany stared at the onrushing . . . things.
‘Some of them have got more than one head!’ she said.
‘It’s oour lucky day, then,’ said Daft Wullie.
The pictsies shifted their weight, ready to fight.
‘Piper,’ said Rob Anybody to William the gonnagle, ‘play us a lament. We’ll fight to the sound of the mousepipes—’
‘No!’ said Tiffany. ‘I’m not standing for this! The way to fight nightmares is to wake up! I am your kelda! This is an order! We’re heading for those trees right now! Do what I say!’
‘Weewee man!’ yelled Wentworth.
The pictsies glanced at the trees, and then at Tiffany.
‘Do it!’ she yelled, so loudly that some of them flinched. ‘Right now! Do what I tell you! There’s a better way!’
‘Ye cannae cross a hag, Rob,’ muttered William.
‘I’m going to get you home!’ snapped Tiffany. I hope, she added to herself. But she’d seen a small, round, pale face staring at them around a tree trunk. There was a drome in those trees.
‘Ach, aye, but—’ Rob Anybody glanced past Tiffany and added: ‘Aw no, look at that. . .’
There was a pale dot in front of the racing line of monstrousness.
Sneebs was making a break for it. His arms pumped like pistons. His little legs seemed to spin. His cheeks were like balloons.
The tide of nightmares rolled over him and kept coming.
Rob sheathed his sword. ‘Ye heard oour kelda, lads!’ he shouted. ‘Grab her! We’rrre offski!’
Tiffany was lifted up. Feegles raised the unconscious Roland. And everyone ran for the trees.
Tiffany pulled her hand out of her apron pocket, and opened up the crumpled wrapper of Jolly Sailor tobacco. It was something to focus on, to remind her of a dream . . .
People said you could see the sea from the very top of the downs, but Tiffany had stared hard on a fine winter’s day, when the air was clear, and seen nothing but the hazy blue of distance. But the sea on the Jolly Sailor packet was deep blue, with white crests on the waves. It was the sea, for Tiffany.
It had looked like a small drome in the trees. That meant it wasn’t very powerful. She hoped so. She had to hope so . . .
The trees got closer. So did the ring of nightmares. Some of the sounds were horrible, of cracking bones and crushing rocks and stinging insects and screaming cats, getting nearer and nearer and nearer—
Chapter 12
Jolly Sailor
– there was sand around her, and white waves crashing, and water draining off the shingle and sounding like an old woman sucking a hard mint.
‘Crivens! Where are we noo?’ said Daft Wullie.
‘Aye, and why’re we all lookin’ like yellow mushrooms?’ Rob Anybody added.
Tiffany looked down, and giggled. Every pictsie was wearing a Jolly Sailor outfit, with an oilskin coat and a huge yellow oilskin rain hat that covered most of their faces. They started to wander about, bumping into one another.
My dream! Tiffany thought. The drome uses what it can find in your head . . . but this is my dream. I can use it.
Wentworth had gone quiet. He was staring at the waves.
There was a boat pulled up on the shingle. As one pictsie, or small yellow mushroom, the Nac Mac Feegles were flocking towards it and clambering up the sides.
‘What are you doing?’ said Tiffany.
‘Best if we wuz leavin’,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘It’s a good dream ye’ve found us, but we cannae stay here.’
‘But we should be safe here!’
‘Ach, the Quin finds a way in everywhere,’ said Rob, as a hundred pictsies raised an oar. ‘Dinnae fash yersel’, we know all about boats. Did ye no’ see Not-totally-wee Georgie pike fishin’ wi’ Wee Bobby in the stream the other day? We is no strangers to the piscatorial an’ nautical arts, ye ken.’