The Wee Free Men (24 page)

It wasn’t just the Nac Mac Feegle but also Wentworth, a strong smell of seaweed, a lot of water, and a dead shark. They appeared in midair and landed in a heap between Tiffany and the Queen. But a pictsie was always ready for a fight, and they bounced, rolled, and came up drawing their swords and shaking seawater out of their hair.

“Oh, ’tis you, izzut?” said Rob Anybody, glaring up at the Queen. “Face to face wi’ ye at last, ye bloustie ol’ callyack that ye are! Ye canna’ come here, unnerstan’? Be off wi’ ye! Are ye goin’ to go quietly?”

The Queen stamped heavily on him. When she took her foot away, only the top of his head was visible above the turf.

“Well, are ye?” he said, pulling himself out as if nothing had happened. “I don’t want tae have tae lose my temper wi’ ye! An’ it’s no good sendin’ your pets against us, ’cause you ken we can take ’em tae the cleaners!” He turned to Tiffany, who hadn’t moved. “You just leave this tae us, kelda. Us an’ the Quin, we go way back!”

The Queen snapped her fingers. “Always leaping into things you don’t understand,” she hissed. “Well, can you face these?”

Every Nac Mac Feegle sword suddenly glowed blue.

Back in the crowd of eerily lit pictsies, a voice that sounded very much like that of Daft Wullie said:

“Ach, we’re in
real
trouble noo…”

Three figures had appeared in the air, a little way away. The middle one, Tiffany saw, had a long red gown, a strange long wig, and black tights with buckles on his shoes. The others were just ordinary men, it seemed, in ordinary gray suits.

“Oh, ye are a harrrrrd wumman, Quin,” said William the gonnagle, “to set the lawyers ontae us.”

“See the one on the left there,” whimpered a pictsie. “See, he’s got a briefcase! It’s a
briefcase
! Oh, waily, waily, a briefcase, waily…”

Reluctantly, a step at a time, pressing together in terror, the Nac Mac Feegle began to back away.

“Oh, waily waily, he’s snappin’ the clasps,” groaned Daft Wullie. “Oh, waily waily waily, ’tis the sound o’ Doom when a lawyer does that!”

“Mister Rob Anybody Feegle and sundry others?” said one of the figures in a dreadful voice.

“There’s naebody here o’ that name!” shouted Rob Anybody. “We dinna know anythin’!”

“We have here a list of criminal and civil charges totaling nineteen thousand, seven hundred and sixty-three separate offenses—”

“We wasna there!” yelled Rob Anybody desperately. “Isn’t that right, lads?”

“—including more than two thousand cases of Making an Affray, Causing a Public Nuisance, Being Found Drunk, Being Found Very Drunk, Using Offensive Language (taking into account ninety-seven counts of Using Language That Was Probably Offensive If Anyone Else Could Understand It), Committing a Breach of the Peace, Malicious Lingering—”

“It’s mistaken identity!” shouted Rob Anybody. “It’s no’ oour fault! We wuz only standing there an’ someone else did it and ran awa’!”

“—Grand Theft, Petty Theft, Burglary, Housebreaking, Loitering with Intent to Commit a Felony—”

“We wuz misunderstood when we was wee bairns!” yelled Rob Anybody. “Ye’re only pickin’ on us ’cause we’re blue! We always get blamed for everythin’! The polis hate us! We wasna even in the country!”

But, to groans from the cowering pictsies, one of the lawyers produced a big roll of paper from his briefcase. He cleared his throat and read out: “Angus, Big; Angus, Not-as-big-as-Big-Angus; Angus, Wee; Archie, Big; Archie, One-Eyed; Archie, Wee Mad—”

“They’ve got oour names!” sobbed Daft Wullie. “They’ve got oour
names
! It’s the pris’n hoose for us!”

“Objection! I move for a writ of
habeas corpus
,” said a small voice. “And enter a plea of
vis-ne faciem capite repletam
, without prejudice.”

There was absolute silence for a moment. Rob Anybody turned to look at the frightened Nac Mac Feegle and said: “Okay, okay, which of youse said that?”

The toad crawled out of the crowd and sighed. “It suddenly all came back to me,” he said. “I remember what I was now. The legal language brought it all back. I’m a toad now, but”—he swallowed—“once I was a lawyer. And this, people, is illegal. These charges are a complete tissue of lies based on hearsay evidence.”

He raised yellow eyes toward the Queen’s lawyers. “I further move that the case be adjourned
sine die
on the basis of
potest-ne mater tua suere, amice
.”

The lawyers had pulled large books out of nowhere and were thumbing through them hastily.

“We’re not familiar with counsel’s terminology,” said one of them.

“Hey, they’re sweatin’,” said Rob Anybody. “You mean we can have lawyers on
oour
side as well?”

“Yes, of course,” said the toad. “You can have defense lawyers.”

“Defense?” said Rob Anybody. “Are you tellin’ me we could get awa’ wi’ it ’cause of a tishoo o’ lies?”

“Certainly,” said the toad. “And with all the treasure you’ve stolen, you can pay enough to be very innocent indeed. My fee will be—”

He gulped as a dozen glowing swords were swung toward him.

“I’ve just remembered
why
that fairy godmother turned me into a toad,” he said. “So, in the circumstances, I’ll take this case
pro bono publico
.”

The swords didn’t move.

“That means for free,” he added.

“Oh, right, we like the sound o’ that,” said Rob Anybody, to the sound of swords being sheathed. “How come ye’re a lawyer
an’
a toad?”

“Oh, well, it was just bit of an argument,” said the toad. “A fairy godmother gave my client three wishes—the usual health, wealth, and happiness package—and when my client woke up one wet morning and didn’t feel
particularly
happy, she got me to bring an action for breach of contract. It was a definite first in the history of fairy godmothering. Unfortunately, as it turned out, so was turning the client into a small hand mirror and her lawyer, as you see before you, into a toad. I think the worst part was when the judge applauded. That was hurtful, in my opinion.”

“But ye can still remember all that legal stuff?
Guid
,” said Rob Anybody. He glared at the other lawyers. “Hey, youse scunners, we got a cheap lawyer and we’re no’ afraid tae use him!”

The other lawyers were pulling more and more paperwork out
of the air now. They looked worried, and a little frightened. Rob Anybody’s eyes gleamed as he watched them.

“What does all that viznee-facey-em stuff mean, my learned friend?” he said.

“Vis-ne faciem capite repletam,”
said the toad. “It was the best I could do in a hurry, but it means, approximately”—he gave a little cough—“‘Would you like a face which is full of head?’”

“And tae think we didna know legal talkin’ was that simple,” said Rob Anybody. “We could all be lawyers, lads, if we knew the fancy words! Let’s
get
them!”

The Nac Mac Feegle could change mood in a moment, especially at the sound of a battle cry. They raised their swords in the air.

“Twelve hundred angry men!”
they shouted.

“Nae more courtroom drama!”

“We ha’ the law on oour side!”

“The law’s made to tak’ care o’ raskills!”

“No,” said the Queen, and waved her hand.

Lawyers and pictsies faded away. There was just her and Tiffany, facing one another on the turf at dawn, the wind hissing around the stones.

“What have you done with them?” Tiffany shouted.

“Oh, they’re around…somewhere,” said the Queen airily. “It’s all dreams, anyway. And dreams within dreams. You can’t rely on anything, little girl. Nothing is real. Nothing lasts. Everything goes. All you can do is learn to dream. And it’s too late for that. And I…I have had longer to learn.”

Tiffany wasn’t sure which of her thoughts was operating now. She was tired. She felt as though she was watching herself from above and a little behind. She saw herself set her boots firmly on the turf, and then…

…and then…

…and then, like someone rising from the clouds of a sleep, she felt the deep, deep Time below her. She sensed the breath of the downs and the distant roar of ancient, ancient seas trapped in millions of tiny shells. She thought of Granny Aching, under the turf, becoming part of the chalk again, part of the land under wave. She felt as if huge wheels, of time and stars, were turning slowly around her.

She opened her eyes and then, somewhere inside, opened her eyes again.

She heard the grass growing, and the sound of worms below the turf. She could feel the thousands of little lives around her, smell all the scents on the breeze, and see all the shades of the night.

The wheels of stars and years, of space and time, locked into place. She knew exactly where she was, and who she was, and what she was.

She swung a hand. The Queen tried to stop her, but she might as well have tried to stop a wheel of years. Tiffany’s hand caught her face and knocked her off her feet.

“Now I know why I never cried for Granny,” she said. “She has never left me.”

She leaned down, and centuries bent with her.

“The secret is not to dream,” she whispered. “The secret is to wake up. Waking up is harder. I have woken up and I am real. I know where I come from and I know where I’m going. You cannot fool me anymore. Or touch me. Or anything that is mine.”

I’ll never be like this again, she thought, as she saw the terror in the Queen’s face. I’ll never again feel as tall as the sky and as old as the hills and as strong as the sea. I’ve been given something for a while, and the price of it is that I have to give it back.

And the
reward
is giving it back, too. No human could live like this. You could spend a day looking at a flower to see how wonderful it is, and that wouldn’t get the milking done. No wonder we dream our way through our lives. To be awake, and see it all as it really is…no one could stand that for long.

She took a deep breath and picked the Queen up. She was aware of things happening, of dreams roaring around her, but they didn’t affect her. She was real and she was awake, more aware than she’d ever been. She had to concentrate even to think against the storm of sensations pouring into her mind.

The Queen was as light as a baby and changed shape madly in Tiffany’s arms—into monsters and mixed-up beasts, things with claws and tentacles. But at last she was small and gray, like a monkey, with a large head and big eyes and a little downy chest that went up and down as she panted.

She reached the stones. The arch still stood. It was never down, Tiffany thought. The Queen had no strength, no magic, just one trick. The worst one.

“Stay away from here,” said Tiffany. “Never come back. Never touch what is mine.” And then, because the thing was so weak and babylike, she added: “But I hope there’s someone who’ll cry for you. I hope the king comes back.”

“You
pity
me?” growled the thing that had been the Queen.

“Yes. A bit,” said Tiffany. “But don’t count on it.”

She put the creature down. It scampered across the snow of Fairyland, turned, and became the beautiful Queen again.

“You won’t win,” the Queen said. “There’s always a way in. People dream.”

“Sometimes we waken,” said Tiffany. “Don’t come back…or there
will be
a reckoning….”

She concentrated, and now the stones framed nothing more—or less—than the country beyond.

I shall have to find a way of sealing that, said her Third Thoughts. Or her Twentieth Thoughts, perhaps. Her head was
full
of thoughts.

She managed to walk a little way and then sat down, hugging her knees. Imagine getting stuck like this, she thought. You’d have to wear earplugs and noseplugs and a big black hood over your head, and
still
you’d see and hear too much…

She closed her eyes, and closed her eyes again.

She felt it all draining away. It
was
like falling asleep, sliding from that strange wide-awakeness into just normal, everyday…well, being awake. It felt as if everything was blurred and muffled.

This is how we always feel, she thought. We sleepwalk through our lives, because how could we live if we were always this awake?

Someone tapped her on the boot.

“H
ey, where did you get to?” shouted Rob Anybody, glaring up at her. “One minute we was just aboout to give them lawyers a good legal seein’-to, next minute you and the Quin wuz gone!”

Dreams within dreams, Tiffany thought, holding her head. But they were over, and you couldn’t look at the Nac Mac Feegle and not know what was real.

“It’s over,” she said.

“Didja kill her?”

“No.”

“She’ll be back then,” said Rob Anybody. “She’s awfu’ stupid, that one. Clever with the dreaming, I’ll grant ye, but not a brain in her heid.”

Tiffany nodded. The blurred feeling was going. The moment of wide-awakeness was fading like a dream.
But I must remember that it wasn’t a dream.

“How did you get away from the huge wave?” she asked.

“Ach, we’re fast movers,” said Rob Anybody. “An’ it was a strong lighthoose. O’ course, the water came up pretty high.”

“A few sharks were involved, that kind of thing,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.

“Oh, aye, a few sharkies,” said Rob Anybody, shrugging. “And one o’ them octopussies—”

“It was a giant squid,” said William the gonnagle.

“Aye, well, it was a kebab pretty quickly,” said Daft Wullie.

“Ha’ a heidful o’ heid, you wee weewee!” shouted Wentworth, overcome with wit.

William coughed politely. “And the big wave threw up a lot of sunken vessels full o’ trrrreasure,” he said. “We stopped off for a wee pillage.”

The Nac Mac Feegle held up wonderful jewels and big gold coins.

“But that’s just dream treasure, surely?” said Tiffany. “Fairy gold! It’ll turn into rubbish in the morning!”

“Aye?” said Rob Anybody. He glanced at the horizon. “Okay, ye heard the kelda, lads! We got mebbe half an hour to sell it to someone! Permission to go offski?” he added to Tiffany.

“Er…oh, yes. Fine. Thank you—”

They were gone, in a split-second blur of blue and red.

But William the gonnagle remained for a moment. He bowed to Tiffany.

“Ye didna do at all badly,” he said. “We’re proud o’ ye. So would yer grrranny be. Remember that. Ye are not unloved.”

Then he vanished too.

There was a groan from Roland, lying on the turf. He began to move.

“Weewee men all gone,” said Wentworth sadly in the silence that followed. “Crivens all gone.”

“What
were
they?” muttered Roland, sitting up and holding his head.

“It’s all a bit complicated,” said Tiffany. “Er…do you remember much?”

“It all seems like…a dream…” said Roland. “I remember…the sea, and we were running, and I cracked a nut which was full of those little men, and I was hunting in this huge forest with shadows—”

“Dreams can be very funny things,” said Tiffany carefully. She went to stand up and thought: I must wait here awhile. I don’t know why I know, I just know. Perhaps I knew and have forgotten. But I must wait for something.

“Can you walk down to the village?” she said.

“Oh, yes. I think so. But what did—?”

“Then will you take Wentworth with you, please? I’d like to…rest for a while.”

“Are you sure?” said Roland, looking concerned.

“Yes. I won’t be long. Please? You can drop him off at the farm. Tell my parents I’ll be down soon. Tell them I’m fine.”

“Weewee men,” said Wentworth. “Crivens! Want bed.”

Roland was still looking uncertain.

“Off you go!” Tiffany commanded, and waved him away.

When the two of the them had disappeared below the brow of the hill, with several backward glances, she sat between the four iron wheels and hugged her knees.

She could see, far off, the mound of the Nac Mac Feegle. Already they were a slightly puzzling memory, and she’d seen them only a few minutes ago. But when they’d gone, they’d left the impression of never having been there.

She could go to the mound and see if she could find the big hole. But supposing it wasn’t there? Or supposing it was, but all
there was down there was rabbits?

No, it’s all true
, she said to herself.
I must remember that, too.

A buzzard screamed in the dawn grayness. She looked up as it circled into sunlight, and a tiny dot detached itself from the bird.

That was far too high up even for a pictsie to stand the fall.

Tiffany scrambled to her feet as Hamish tumbled through the sky. And then—something ballooned above him, and the fall became just a gentle floating, like thistledown.

The bulging shape above Hamish was Y-shaped. As it got bigger, the shape become more precise, more…familiar.

He landed, and a pair of Tiffany’s pants, the long-legged ones with the rosebud pattern, settled down on top of him.

“That was
great
!” he said, pushing his way through the folds of fabric. “Nae more landin’ on my heid for me!”

“They’re my best pants,” said Tiffany wearily. “You stole them off our clothesline, didn’t you?”

“Oh aye. Nice and clean,” said Hamish. “I had to cut the lace off ’cause it got in the way, but I put it aside and ye could easily sew it on again.” He gave Tiffany the big grin of someone who, for once, has not dived heavily into the ground.

She sighed. She’d liked the lace. She didn’t have many things that weren’t necessary. “I think you’d better keep them,” she said.

“Aye, I will, then,” said Hamish. “Noo, what wuz it? Oh, yes. Ye have visitors comin’. I spotted them out over the valley. Look up there.”

There were two other things up there, bigger than a buzzard, so high that they were already in full sunlight. Tiffany watched as they circled lower.

They were broomsticks.

I
knew
I had to wait! Tiffany thought.

Her ears bubbled. She turned and saw Hamish running across the grass. As she looked, the buzzard picked him up and sped onward. She wondered if he was frightened or, at least, didn’t want to meet whoever was coming

The broomsticks descended.

The lowest one had two figures on it. As it landed, Tiffany saw that one of them was Miss Tick, clinging anxiously to a smaller figure who’d been doing the steering. She half climbed off, half fell off, and tottered over to Tiffany.

“You wouldn’t believe the time I’ve had,” she said. “It was just a nightmare! We flew through the storm! Are you all right?”

“Er…yes…”

“What happened?”

Tiffany looked at her. How did you begin to answer something like that?

“The Queen’s gone,” she said. That seemed to cover it.

“What? The Queen has
gone
? Oh…er…these ladies are Mrs. Ogg—”

“Mornin’,” said the broomstick’s other occupant, who was pulling at her long black dress, from under the folds of which came the sounds of twanging elastic. “The wind up there blows where it likes, I don’t mind telling you!” She was a short fat lady with a cheerful face like an apple that had been stored too long; all the wrinkles moved into different positions when she smiled.

“And this,” said Miss Tick, “is Miss—”

“Mistress,” snapped the other witch.

“I’m so sorry,
Mistress
Weatherwax,” said Miss Tick. “Very,
very
good witches,” she whispered to Tiffany. “I was very lucky to find them. They
respect
witches up in the mountains.”

Tiffany was impressed that anyone could make Miss Tick
flustered, but the other witch seemed to do it just by standing there. She was tall—except, Tiffany realized, she wasn’t
that
tall, but she
stood
tall, which could easily fool you if you weren’t paying attention—and like the other witch wore a rather shabby black dress. She had an elderly, thin face that gave nothing away. Piercing blue eyes looked Tiffany up and down, from head to toe.

“You’ve got good boots,” said the witch.

“Tell Mistress Weatherwax what happened,” Miss Tick began. But the witch held up a hand, and Miss Tick stopped talking immediately. Tiffany was even more impressed now.

Mistress Weatherwax gave Tiffany a look that went right through her head and about five miles out the other side. Then she walked over to the stones and waved one hand. It was an odd movement, a kind of wriggle in the air, but for a moment it left a glowing line. There was a noise, a chord, as though all sorts of sounds were happening at the same time. It snapped into silence.

“Jolly Sailor tobacco?” said the witch.

“Yes,” said Tiffany.

The witch waved a hand again. There was another sharp, complicated noise. Mistress Weatherwax turned suddenly and stared at the distant pimple that was the pictsie mound.

“Nac Mac Feegle?
Kelda?
” she demanded.

“Er, yes. Only temporary,” said Tiffany.

“Hmmph,” said Mistress Weatherwax.

Wave. Sound.

“Frying pan?”

“Yes. It got lost, though.”

“Hmm.”

Wave. Sound. It was as if the woman was extracting her history from the air.

“Filled buckets?”

“And they filled up the log box, too,” said Tiffany.

Wave. Sound.

“I see. Special Sheep Liniment?”

“Yes, my father says it puts—”

Wave. Sound.

“Ah. Land of snow.” Wave. Sound. “A queen.” Wave. Sound. “Fighting.” Wave, sound. “On the sea?” Wave, sound, wave, sound…

Mistress Weatherwax stared at the flashing air, looking at pictures only she could see. Mrs. Ogg sat down beside Tiffany, her little legs going up in the air as she made herself comfortable.

“I’ve tried Jolly Sailor,” she said. “Smells like toenails, don’t it?”

“Yes, it does!” said Tiffany, gratefully.

“To be a kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, you have to marry one of ’em, don’t you?” said Mrs. Ogg innocently.

“Ah, yes, but I found a way around that,” said Tiffany. She told her. Mrs. Ogg laughed. It was a sociable kind of laugh, the sort of laugh that makes you comfortable.

The noise and flashing stopped. Mistress Weatherwax stood staring at nothing for a moment and then said: “You beat the Queen, at the end. But you had help, I think.”

“Yes, I did,” said Tiffany.

“And that was—?”

“I don’t ask you
your
business,” said Tiffany, before she even realized she was going to say it. Miss Tick gasped. Mrs. Ogg’s eyes twinkled, and she looked from Tiffany to Mistress Weatherwax like someone watching a tennis match.

“Tiffany, Mistress Weatherwax is the most famous witch in all—” Miss Tick began severely, but the witch waved a hand at her again. I really must learn how to do that, Tiffany thought.

Then Mistress Weatherwax took off her pointed hat and bowed to Tiffany.

“Well said,” she said, straightening up and staring directly at Tiffany. “I didn’t have no right to ask you. This is your country—we’re here by your leave. I show you respect
as you in turn will respect me
.” The air seemed to freeze for a moment and the skies to darken. Then Mistress Weatherwax went on, as if the moment of thunder hadn’t happened: “But if one day you care to tell me more, I should be grateful to hear about it,” she said, in a conversational voice. “And them creatures that look like they’re made of dough, I should like to know more about them, too. Never run across them before. And your grandmother sounds the kind of person I would have liked to meet.” She straightened up. “In the meantime, we’d better see if there’s anything left you can still be taught.”

“Is this where I learn about the witches’ school?” said Tiffany.

There was a moment of silence.

“Witches’ school?” said Mistress Weatherwax.

“Um,” said Miss Tick.

“You were being metapahorrical, weren’t you?” said Tiffany.

“Metapahorrical?” said Mrs. Ogg, wrinkling her forehead.

“She means metaphorical,” mumbled Miss Tick.

“It’s like stories,” said Tiffany. “It’s all right. I worked it out.
This
is the school, isn’t it? The magic place? The world. Here. And you don’t realize it until you look. Do you know the pictsies think this world is heaven? We just don’t look. You can’t give lessons on witchcraft. Not properly. It’s all about how you are…you, I suppose.”

“Nicely said,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “You’re sharp. But there’s magic, too. You’ll pick that up. It don’t take much intelligence,
otherwise wizards wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“You’ll need a job, too,” said Mrs. Ogg. “There’s no money in witchcraft. Can’t do magic for yourself, see? Cast-iron rule.”

“I make good cheese,” said Tiffany.

“Cheese, eh?” said Mistress Weatherwax. “Hmm. Yes. Cheese is good. But do you know anything about medicines? Midwifery? That’s a good portable skill.”

“Well, I’ve helped deliver difficult lambs,” said Tiffany. “And I saw my brother being born. They didn’t bother to turn me out. It didn’t look too difficult. But I think cheese is probably easier, and less noisy.”

“Cheese is good,” Mistress Weatherwax repeated, nodding. “Cheese is alive.”

“And what do you
really
do?” said Tiffany.

The thin witch hesitated for a moment, and then:

“We look to…the edges,” said Mistress Weatherwax. “There’s a lot of edges, more than people know. Between life and death, this world and the next, night and day, right and wrong…an’ they need watchin’. We watch ’em, we guard the sum of things. And we never ask for any reward. That’s important.”

“People give us stuff, mind you. People can be very gen’rous to witches,” said Mrs. Ogg happily. “On bakin’ days in our village, sometimes I can’t move for cake. There’s ways and ways of not askin’, if you get my meaning. People like to see a happy witch.”

“But down here people think witches are bad!” said Tiffany, but her Second Thoughs added:
Remember how rarely Granny Aching ever had to buy her own tobacco?

“It’s amazin’ what people can get used to,” said Mrs. Ogg. “You just have to start slow.”