A Hat Full Of Sky

‘Crivens! Here comes the big hag!’

Half of Miss Level stepped out into the ruined garden.

She stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head.

Daft Wullie was stuck out in the open where he’d been trying to snag a fallen apple. He turned to flee and would have got clean away if he hadn’t run straight into a pottery garden gnome. He bounced off, stunned, and staggered wildly, trying to focus on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of him. He was far too angry to hear the click of the garden gate and soft tread of approaching footsteps.

When it comes to choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn’t think twice. He doesn’t think at all.

‘What’re ye grinnin’ at, pal?’ he demanded. ‘Oh aye, you reckon you’re the big man, eh, jus’ ‘cos yez got a fishin’ rod?’ He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand and aimed his head at what turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed anyway, as things tend to in these circumstances, but it did slow the little man down and cause him to stagger in circles.

Too late, he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to flee, right into the hands of also Miss Level.

Her fingers closed around him.

‘I’m a witch, you know,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t stop struggling this minute I will subject you to the most dreadful torture. Do you know what that is?’

Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of juggling had given Miss Level a grip like steel. Down in the long grass, the rest of the Feegles listened so hard it hurt.

Miss Level brought him a little closer to her mouth. ‘I’ll let you go right now without giving you a taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my cupboard,’ she said.

Rob Anybody leaped up. ‘Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi’! D’ye no’ have a drop of mercy in you?’ he shouted. ‘Ye’re a cruel hag indeed tae—’ He stopped. Miss Level was smiling. Rob Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the ground and said: ‘Ach, crivens!’

The Nac Mac Feegle respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one had brought out a big loaf and a whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You had to respect someone like that.

‘Of course, I’d heard of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,’ she said, watching them eat, which is not something to be done lightly. ‘But I always thought you were just a myth.’

‘Aye, weel, we’ll stay that way if ye dinnae mind,’ said Rob Anybody, and belched. ‘ ‘Tis bad enough wi’ them arky-olly-gee men wantin’ to dig up oour mounds wi’oot them folklore ladies wantin’ to tak’ pichoors o’ us an’ that.’

‘And you watch over Tiffany’s farm, Mr Anybody?’

‘Aye, we do that, an’ we dinnae ask for any reward,’ said Rob Anybody stoutly.

‘Aye, we just tak’ a few wee eiggs an’ fruits an’ old clothes and—’ Daft Wullie began.

Rob gave him a look.

‘Er… wuz that one o’ those times when I shouldna’ open my big fat mouth?’ said Wullie.

‘Aye. It wuz,’ said Rob. He turned back to both of Miss Level. ‘Mebbe we tak’ the odd bitty thing lyin’ aboot—’

‘—in locked cupboards an’ such—’ added Daft Wullie happily.

‘—but it’s no’ missed, an’ we keeps an eye on the ships in payment,’ said Rob, glaring at his brother.

‘You can see the sea from down there?’ said Miss Level, entering that state of general bewilderment that most people fell into when talking to the Feegles.

‘Rob Anybody means the sheep,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. Gonnagles know a bit more about language.

‘Aye, I said so, ships,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Anywa’… aye, we watch her farm. She’s the hag o’ oor hills, like her granny.’ He added proudly, ‘It’s through her the hills knows they are alive.’

‘And a hiver is… ?’

Rob hesitated. ‘Dunno the proper haggin’ way o’ talking aboot it,’ he said. ‘Awf’ly Wee Billy, you know them lang words.’

Billy swallowed. ‘There’s old poems, mistress. It’s like a—a mind wi’oot a body, except it disnae think. Some say it’s nothing but a fear, and never dies. And what it does…’ His tiny face wrinkled. ‘It’s like them things you get on sheep,’ he decided.

The Feegles who weren’t eating and drinking came to his aid.

‘Horns?’

‘Wools?’

‘Tails?’

‘Legs?’

‘Chairs?’ This was Daft Wullie.

‘Sheep ticks,’ said Billy, thoughtfully.

‘A parasite, you mean?’ said Miss Level.

‘Aye, that could be the word,’ said Billy. ‘It creeps in, ye ken. It looks for folks wi’ power and strength. Kings, ye ken, magicians, leaders. They say that way back in time, afore there wuz people, it live in beasts. The strongest beasts, ye ken, the one wi’ big, big teeths. An’ when it finds ye, it waits for a chance tae creep intae your head and it becomes ye.’

The Feegles fell silent, watching Miss Level.

‘Becomes you?’ she said.

‘Aye. Wi’ your memories an’ all. Only… it changes ye. It gives ye a lot o’ power, but it takes ye over, makes ye its own. An’ the last wee bit of ye that still is ye… well, that’ll fight and fight, mebbe, but it will dwindle and dwindle until it’s a’ gone an’ ye’re just a memory…’

The Feegles watched both of Miss Level. You never knew what a hag would do at a time like this.

‘Wizards used to summon demons,’ she said. ‘They may still do so, although I think that’s considered so fifteen centuries ago these days. But that takes a lot of magic. And you could talk to demons, I believe. And there were rules.’

‘Never heard o’ a hiver talkin’,’ said Billy. ‘Or obeyin’ rules.’

‘But why would it want Tiffany?’ said Miss Level. ‘She’s not powerful!’

‘She has the power o’ the land in her,’ said Rob Anybody stoutly. ‘ ‘Tis a power that comes at need, not for doin’ wee conjurin’ tricks. We seen it, mistress!’

‘But Tiffany doesn’t do any magic,’ said Miss Level, helplessly. ‘She’s very bright but she can’t even make a shamble. You must be wrong about that.’

‘Any o’ youse lads seen the hag do any hagglin’ lately?’ Rob Anybody demanded. There were a lot of shaken heads, and a shower of beads, beetles, feathers and miscellaneous head items.

‘Do you spy—I mean, do you watch over her all the time?’ said Miss Level, slightly horrified.

‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob, airily. ‘No’ in the privy, o’course. An’ it’s getting harder in her bedroom ‘cuz she’s blocked up a lot o’ the cracks, for some reason.’

‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Miss Level carefully.

‘No’ us, neither,’ said Rob. ‘We reckon it was ‘cuz o’ the draughts.’

‘Yes, I expect that’s why it was,’ said Miss Level.

‘So mostly we get in through a mousehole and hides out in her old dolly house until she guz tae sleep,’ said Rob. ‘Dinnae look at me like that, mistress, all the lads is perrrfect gentlemen an’ keeps their eyes tight shut when she’s gettin’ intae her nightie. Then there’s one guarding her window and another at the door.’

‘Guarding her from what?’

‘Everything.’

For a moment Miss Level had a picture in her mind of a silent, moonlit bedroom with a sleeping child. She saw, by the window, lit by the moon, one small figure on guard, and another in the shadows by the door. What were they guarding her from? Everything…