A Hat Full Of Sky

drinking tea from cracked cups, gossiping with old women with fewer teeth than toes. It made her feel ill.

It was a bright day, but it seemed dark as they walked on. The feeling was like a thunderstorm inside her head.

Then the daydreams began. She was helping to splint the arm of some dull child who’d broken it when she glanced up and saw her reflection in the glass of the cottage window.

She was a tiger, with huge fangs.

She yelped, and stood up.

‘Oh, do be careful,’ said Miss Level, and then saw her face. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she said.

‘I… I… something bit me!’ lied Tiffany. That was a safe bet in these places. The fleas bit the rats and the rats bit the children.

She managed to get out into the daylight, her head spinning. Miss Level came out a few minutes later and found her leaning against the wall, shaking.

‘You look dreadful,’ she said.

‘Ferns!’ said Tiffany. ‘Everywhere! Big ferns! And big things, like cows made out of lizards!’ She turned a wide, mirthless smile onto Miss Level, who took a step back. ‘You can eat them!’ She blinked. ‘What’s happening?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know but I’m coming right down here this minute to fetch you,’ said Miss Level. ‘I’m on the broomstick right now!’

‘They laughed at me when I said I could trap one. Well, who’s laughing now, tell me that, eh?’

Miss Level’s expression of concern turned into something close to panic.

‘That didn’t sound like your voice. That sounded like a man! Do you feel all right?’

‘Feel… crowded,’ murmured Tiffany.

‘Crowded?’ said Miss Level.

‘Strange… memories… help me…’

Tiffany looked at her arm. It had scales on. Now it had hair on it. Now it was smooth and brown, and holding—

‘A scorpion sandwich?’ she said.

‘Can you hear me?’ said Miss Tick, her voice a long way away. ‘You’re delirious. Are you sure you girls haven’t been playing with potions or anything like that?’

The broomstick dropped out of the sky and the other part of Miss Level nearly fell off. Without speaking, both of Miss Level got Tiffany onto the stick and part of Miss Level got on behind her.

It didn’t take long to fly back to the cottage. Tiffany spent the flight with her mind full of hot cotton-wool and wasn’t at all certain where she was, although her body did know and threw up again.

Miss Level helped her off the stick and sat her on the garden seat just outside the cottage door.

‘Now just you wait there,’ said Miss Level, who dealt with emergencies by talking incessantly and using the word ‘just’ too often because it’s a calming word, ‘and I’ll just get you a drink and then we’ll just see what the matter is…’ There was a pause and then the stream of words came out of the house again, dragging Miss Level after them and ‘I’ll just check on… things. Just drink this, please!’

Tiffany drank the water and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Miss Level weaving string around an egg. She was trying to make a shamble without Tiffany noticing.

Strange images were floating around Tiffany’s mind. There were scraps of voices, fragments of memories… and one little voice that was her own, small and defiant and getting fainter:

You’re not me. You just think you are! Someone help me!

‘Now, then,’ said Miss Level, ‘let’s just see what we can see—’

The shamble exploded, not just into pieces but into fire and smoke.

‘Oh, Tiffany,’ said Miss Level, frantically waving smoke away. ‘Are you all right?’

Tiffany stood up slowly. It seemed to Miss Level that she was slightly taller than she remembered.

‘Yes, I think I am,’ said Tiffany. ‘I think I’ve been all wrong, but now I’m all right. And I’ve been wasting my time, Miss Level.’

‘What—?’ Miss Level began.

Tiffany pointed a finger at her. ‘I know why you had to leave the circus, Miss Level,’ she said. ‘It was to do with the clown Floppo, the trick ladder and… some custard…’

Miss Level went pale. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘Just by looking at you!’ said Tiffany, pushing past her into the dairy. ‘Watch this, Miss Level!’

She pointed a finger. A wooden spoon rose an inch from the table. Then it began to spin, faster and faster until, with a cracking sound, it broke into splinters. They whirled away across the room.

‘And I can do this!’ Tiffany shouted. She grabbed a bowl of curds, tipped them out on the table and waved a hand at them. They turned into a cheese.

‘Now that’s what cheesemaking should be!’ she said. ‘To think that I spent stupid years learning the hard way! That’s how a real witch does it! Why do we crawl in the dirt, Miss Level? Why do we amble around with herbs and bandage smelly old men’s legs? Why do we get paid with eggs and stale cakes? Annagramma is as stupid as a hen but even she can see it’s wrong. Why don’t we use magic? Why are you so afraid?’

Miss Level tried to smile. “Tiffany, dear, we all go through this,’ she said, and her voice was shaking. ‘Though not as… explosively as you, I have to say. And the answer is… well, it’s dangerous.’

‘Yes, but that’s what people always say to scare children,’ said Tiffany. ‘We get told stories to frighten us, to keep us scared! Don’t go into the big bad wood help me because it’s full of scary things, that’s what we’re told. But really, the big bad wood should be scared of us! I’m going out!’

‘I think that would be a good idea,’ said Miss Level weakly. ‘Until you behave.’

‘I don’t have to do things your way,’ snarled Tiffany, slamming the door behind her.

Miss Level’s broomstick was leaning against the wall a little way away. Tiffany stopped and stared at it, her mind on fire.

She’d tried to keep away from it. Miss Level had wheedled her into a trial flight with Tiffany clinging on tightly with arms and legs while both of Miss Level ran alongside her, holding onto ropes and making encouraging noises. They had stopped when Tiffany threw up for the fourth time.

Well, that was then!

She grabbed the stick, swung a leg over it—and found that her other foot stuck to the ground as though nailed there. The broomstick twisted around wildly as she tried to pull it up and, when the boot was finally tugged off the ground, turned over so that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the best position in which to make a grand exit.

She said, quietly, ‘I am not going to learn you, you are going to learn me. Or the next lesson will involve an axe!’

The broomstick turned upright, then gently rose.

‘Right,’ said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience. The ground dropping away below her didn’t worry her at all. If it didn’t have the sense to stay away from her, she’d hit it…

As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long grass of the garden.

‘Ach, we’re too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.’

‘Aye, but did ye see that foot? It’s nae won yet—oor hag’s in there somewhere! She’s fighting it! It cannae win until it’s taken the last scrap o’ her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin’ to grab them apples! ’

‘It’s sorry I am tae say this, Rob, but no one can fight a hiver. ‘Tis like fightin’ yoursel. The more you fight, the more it’ll tak’ o’ ye. And when it has all o’ ye–’

‘Wash oot yer mouth wi’ hedgehog pee, Big Yan! That isnae gonna happen–’