A Hat Full Of Sky

Gradually, the fighters became aware of a sound. It was the skirl of the mousepipes, cutting through the battle like a sword. Hands stopped gripping throats, fists stopped in mid-punch, kicks hovered in mid-air.

Tears ran down Awf’ly Wee Billy’s face as he played The Bonny Flowers, the saddest song in the world. It was about home, and mothers, and good times gone past, and faces no longer there. The Feegles let go of one another and stared down at their feet as the forlorn notes wound about them, speaking of betrayal and treachery and the breaking of promises—

‘Shame on ye!’ screamed Awf’ly Wee Billy, letting the pipe drop out of his mouth. ‘Shame on ye! Traitors! Betrayers! Ye shame hearth and hame! Your hag is fightin’ for her verra soul! Have ye no honour?’ He flung down the mousepipes, which wailed into silence. ‘I curse my feets that let me stand here in front o’ ye! Ye shame the verra sun shinin’ on ye! Ye shame the kelda that birthed ye! Traitors! Scuggans! What ha’ I done to be among this parcel o’ rogues? Any man here want tae fight? Then fight me! Aye, fight me! An’ I swear by the harp o’ bones I’ll tak’ him tae the deeps o’ the sea an’ then kick him tae the craters o’ the moon an’ see him ride tae the Pit o’ Heel itself on a saddle made o’ hedgehogs! I tell ye, my rage is the strength of the storm that tears mountains intae sand! Who among ye will stand agin me?’

Big Yan, who was almost three times the size of Awf’ly Wee Billy, cowered back as the little gonnagle stood in front of him. Not a Feegle would have raised a hand at that moment, for fear of his life. The rage of a gonnagle was a dreadful thing to see. A gonnagle could use words like swords.

Daft Wullie shuffled forward.

‘I can see ye’re upset, gonnagle,’ he mumbled. ‘ ‘Tis me that’s at fault, on account o’ being daft. I shoulda remembered aboout us and pubs.’

He looked so dejected that Awf’ly Wee Billy calmed down a little.

‘Very well then,’ he said, but rather coldly because you can’t lose that much anger all at once. ‘We’ll not talk aboot this again. But we will remember it, right?’ He pointed to the sleeping shape of Tiffany. ‘Now pick up that wool, and the tobacco, and the turpentine, understand? Someone tak’ the top off the turpentine bottle and pour a wee drop onto a bit o’ cloth. And no one, let me mak’ myself clear, is tae drink any of it!’

The Feegles fell over themselves to obey. There was a ripping noise as ‘the bit o’ cloth’ was obtained from the bottom of Miss Level’s dress.

‘Right,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘Daft Wullie, you tak’ all the three things and put them up on the big wee hag’s chest, where she can smell them.’

‘How can she smell them when she’s oot cold like that?’ said Wullie.

‘The nose disnae sleep,’ said the gonnagle flatly.

The three smells of the shepherding hut were laid reverentially just below Tiffany’s chin.

‘Noo we wait,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy. ‘We wait, and hope.’

It was hot in the little bedroom with the sleeping witches and a crowd of Feegles. It wasn’t long before the smells of sheep’s wool, turpentine and tobacco rose and twined and filled the air…

Tiffany’s nose twitched.

The nose is a big thinker. It’s good at memory—very good. So good that a smell can take you back in memory so hard that it hurts. The brain can’t stop it. The brain has nothing to do with it. The hiver could control brains, but it couldn’t control a stomach that threw up when it was flown on a broomstick. And it was useless at noses…

The smell of sheep’s wool, turpentine and Jolly Sailor tobacco could carry a mind away, all the way to a silent place that was warm and safe and free from harm…

The hiver opened its eyes and looked around.

‘The shepherding hut?’ it said.

It sat up. Red light shone in through the open door, and through the trunks of the saplings growing everywhere. Many of them were quite big now and cast long shadows, putting the setting sun behind bars. Around the shepherding hut, though, they had been cut down.

‘This is a trick,’ it said. ‘It won’t work. We are you. We think like you. We’re better at thinking like you than you are.’

Nothing happened.

The hiver looked like Tiffany, although here it was slightly taller because Tiffany thought she was slightly taller than she really was. It stepped out of the hut and onto the turf.

‘It’s getting late,’ it said to the silence. ‘Look at the trees! This place is dying. We don’t have to escape. Soon all this will be part of us. Everything that you really could be. You’re proud of your little piece of ground. We can remember when there were no worlds! We—you could change things with a wave of your hand! You could make things right or make things wrong, and you could decide which is which! You will never die!’

‘Then why are ye sweatin’, ye big heap o’ jobbies? Ach, what a scunner!’ said a voice behind it.

For a moment the hiver wavered. Its shape changed, many times in the fractions of a second. There were bits of scales, fins, teeth, a pointy hat, claws… and then it was Tiffany again, smiling.

‘Oh, Rob Anybody, we are glad to see you,’ it said. ‘Can you help us—?’

‘Dinnae gi’ me all that swiddle!’ shouted Rob, bouncing up and down in rage. ‘I know a hiver when I sees one! Crivens but ye’re due a kickin’!’

The hiver changed again, became a lion with teeth the size of swords and roared at him.

‘Ach, it’s like that, is it?’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Dinnae go awa’!’ He ran a few steps and vanished.

The hiver changed back to its Tiffany shape again.

‘Your little friend has gone,’ it said. ‘Come out now. Come out now. Why fear us? We are you. You won’t be like the rest, the dumb animals, the stupid kings, the greedy wizards. Together—’

Rob Anybody returned, followed by… well, everyone.

‘Ye cannae die,’ he yelled. ‘But we’ll make ye wish ye could!’

They charged.

The Feegles had the advantage in most fights because they were small and fought big enemies. If you’re small and fast you’re hard to hit. The hiver fought back by changing shape, all the time. Swords clanged on scales, heads butted fangs—it whirled across the turf, growling and screaming, calling up past shapes to counter every attack. But Feegles were hard to kill. They bounced when thrown, sprang back when trodden on and easily dodged teeth and claws. They fought—

–and the ground shook so suddenly that even the hiver lost its footing.

The shepherding hut creaked and began to settle into the turf, which opened up around it as easily as butter. The saplings trembled and began to fall over, one after the other, as if their roots were being cut under the grass.

The land… rose.

Rolling down the shifting slope, the Feegles saw the hills climbing towards the sky. What was there, what had always been there, become more plain.

Rising into the dark sky was a head, shoulders, a chest… Someone who had been lying down, growing turf, their arms and legs the hills and valleys of the downland, was sitting up. They moved with great stony slowness, millions of tons of hill shifting and creaking around them. What had looked like two long mounds in the shape of a cross became giant green arms, unfolding.

A hand with fingers longer than houses reached down, picked up the hiver and lifted it up into the air.

Far off, something thumped three times. The sound seemed to be coming from outside the world. The Feegles, turning and watching from the small hill that was one of the knees of the giant girl, ignored them.

‘She tells the land whut it is, and it tells her who she is,’ said Awf’ly Wee Billy, tears running down his face. ‘I cannae write a song aboot this! I’m nae good enough!’