The sun was going down and the shadows were moving and the turf was dying.
Rob charged.
What happened during the Nac Mac Feegles’ search for the right smell was remembered by several witnesses (quite apart from all the owls and bats who were left spinning in the air by a broomstick being navigated by a bunch of screaming little blue men).
One of them was Number 95, a ram owned by a not very imaginative farmer. But all he remembered was a sudden noise in the night and a draughty feeling on his back. That was about as exciting as it got for Number 95, so he went back to thinking about grass.
Then there was Mildred Pusher, aged seven, who was the daughter of the farmer who owned Number 95. One day, when she’d grown up and become a grandmother, she told her grandchildren about the night she came downstairs by candlelight for a drink of water and heard the noises under the sink…
‘And there were these little voices, you see, and one said, “Ach, Wullie, you cannae drink that, look, it says ‘Poison!!’ on the bottle,” and another voice said, “Aye, gonnagle, they put that on tae frighten a man from havin’ a wee drink,” and the
One of her grandchildren, who’d been listening with his mouth open, said, ‘What did they give you, Grandma?’
‘This!’ Mildred held up a silver spoon. ‘And the strange thing is, it’s just like the ones my mother had, which vanished mysteriously from the drawer the very same night! I’ve kept it safe ever since!’
This was admired by all. Then one of the grandchildren asked: ‘What were the fairies like, Grandma?’
Grandma Mildred thought about this. ‘Not as pretty as you might expect,’ she said at last. ‘But definitely more smelly. And just after they’d gone there was a sound like—’
People in the King’s Legs (the owner had noticed that there were lots of inns and pubs called the King’s Head or the King’s Arms, and spotted a gap in the market) looked up when they heard the noise outside.
After a minute or two the door burst open.
‘Good night to ye, fellow bigjobs!’ roared a figure in the doorway.
The room fell horribly silent. Awkwardly, legs going in every direction, the scarecrow figure wove unsteadily towards the bar and grabbed it thankfully, hanging on as it sagged onto its knees.
‘A big huge wee drop o’ yer finest whisky, me fine fellow barman fellow,’ it said from somewhere under the hat.
‘It seems to me that you’ve already had enough to drink, friend,’ said the barman, whose hand had crept to the cudgel he kept under the bar for special customers.
‘Who’re ye calling “friend”, pal?’ roared the figure, trying to pull itself up. ‘That’s fightin’ talk, that is! And I havenae had enough to drink, pal, ‘cos if I have, why’ve I still got all this money, eh? Answer me that!’
A hand sagged into a coat pocket, came out jerkily and slammed down onto the top of the bar. Ancient gold coins rolled in every direction and a couple of silver spoons dropped out of the sleeve.
The silence of the bar became a lot deeper. Dozens of eyes watched the shiny discs as they spun off the bar and rolled across the floor.
‘An’ I want an ounce o’ Jolly Sailor baccy,’ said the figure.
‘Why, certainly, sir,’ said the barman, who had been brought up to be respectful to gold coins. He felt under the bar and his expression changed.
‘Oh. I’m sorry, sir, we’ve sold out. Very popular, Jolly Sailor. But we’ve got plenty of—’
The figure had already turned round to face the rest of the room.
‘OK, I’ll gi’e a handful o’ gold to the first scunner who gi’es me a pipeful o’ Jolly Sailor!’ it yelled.
The room erupted. Tables scraped. Chairs overturned.
The scarecrow man grabbed the first pipe and threw the coins into the air. As fights immediately broke out, he turned back to the bar and said:
‘And I’ll ha’ that wee drop o’ whisky before I go, barman. Ach, no you willnae, Big Yan!
The customers stopped pushing one another out of the way to get at the coins, and got up to face a whole body arguing with itself.
‘Anywa’, I’m in the heid, right? The heid’s in charge. I dinnae ha’ tae listen to a bunch o’ knees!
To the horror of the customers the entire bottom half of the figure turned round and started to walk towards the door, causing the top half to fall forward. It gripped the edge of the bar desperately, managed to say, ‘OK! Is a deep-fried pickled egg totally oot o’ the question?’ and then the figure—
–tore itself in half. The legs staggered a few steps towards the door, and fell over.
In the shocked silence a voice from somewhere in the trousers said: ‘Crivens! Time for offski!’
The air blurred for a moment and the door slammed.
After a while one of the customers stepped forward cautiously and prodded the heap of old clothes and sticks that was all that remained of the visitor. The hat rolled off and he jumped back.
A glove that was still hanging onto the bar fell onto the floor with a
‘Well, look at it this way,’ said the barman. ‘Whatever it was, at least it’s left its pockets—’
From outside came the sound of:
The broomstick hit the thatched roof of Miss Level’s cottage hard, and stuck in it. Feegles fell off, still fighting.
In a struggling, punching mass they rolled into the cottage, conducted guerrilla warfare all the way up the stairs and ended up in a head-butting, kicking heap in Tiffany’s bedroom, where those who’d been left behind to guard the sleeping girl and Miss Level joined in out of interest.
