A Hat Full Of Sky

Things went blurry again. She could hear whispered discussions through the fog and the voice said: ‘Well, that might work. What’s your name, pictsie?’

‘Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle, mistress.’

‘You’re very small, aren’t you?’

‘Only for my height, mistress.’

The grip tightened on Tiffany’s arms again. The blue eyes glinted.

‘What does your name mean in the Old Speech of the Nac Mac Feegle, Tiffany? Think…’

It rose from the depths of her mind, trailing the fog behind it. It came up through the clamouring voices and lifted her beyond the reach of ghostly hands. Ahead, the clouds parted.

‘My name is Land Under Wave,’ said Tiffany and slumped forward.

‘No, no, none of that, we can’t have that,’ said the figure holding her. ‘You’ve slept enough. Good, you know who you are! Now you must be up and doing! You must be Tiffany as hard as you may, and the other voices will leave you alone, depend on it. Although it might be a good idea if you don’t make sandwiches for a while.’

She did feel better. She’d said her name. The clamouring in her head had calmed down, although it was still a chatter that made it hard to think straight. But now at least she could see clearly. The black-dressed figure holding her wasn’t tall, but she was so good at acting as if she was that it tended to fool most people.

‘Oh… you’re… Mistress Weatherwax?’

Mistress Weatherwax pushed her down gently into a chair. From every flat surface in the kitchen, the Nac Mac Feegles watched Tiffany.

‘I am. And a fine mess we have here. Rest for a moment and then we must be up and doing—’

‘Good morning, ladies. Er, how is she?’

Tiffany turned her head. Miss Level stood in the door. She looked pale and she was walking with a stick.

‘I was lying in bed and I thought, Well, there’s no reason to stay up here feeling sorry for myself,’ she said.

Tiffany stood up. ‘I’m so sor—’ she began, but Miss Level waved a hand vaguely.

‘Not your fault,’ she said, sitting down heavily at the table. ‘How are you? And, for that matter, who are you?’

Tiffany blushed. ‘Still me, I think,’ she mumbled.

‘I got here last night and saw to Miss Level,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Watched over you, too, girl. You talked in your sleep or, rather, Sensibility Bustle did, what’s left of him. That ol’ wizard was quite helpful, for something that’s nothing much more’n a bunch of memories and habits.’

‘I don’t understand about the wizard,’ said Tiffany. ‘Or the desert queen.’

‘Don’t you?’ said the witch. ‘Well, a hiver collects people. Tries to add them to itself, you might say, use them to think with. Dr Bustle was studying them hundreds of years ago, and set a trap to catch one. It got him instead, silly fool. It killed him in the end. It gets ‘em all killed in the end. They go mad, one way or the other, they stop remembering what they shouldn’t do. But it keeps a sort of… pale copy of them, a sort of living memory…’ She looked at Tiffany’s puzzled expression and shrugged. ‘Something like a ghost,’ she said.

‘And it’s left ghosts in my head?’

‘More like ghosts of ghosts, really,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Something we don’t have a word for, maybe.’

Miss Level shuddered. ‘Well, thank goodness you’ve got rid of the thing, at least,’ she quavered. ‘Would anyone like a nice cup of tea?’

‘Ach, leave that tae us!’ shouted Rob Anybody, leaping up. ‘Daft Wullie, you an’ the boys mak’ some tea for the ladies!’

‘Thank you,’ said Miss Level weakly, as a clattering began behind her. ‘I feel so clum—what? I thought you broke all the teacups when you did the washing up!’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob cheerfully. ‘But Wullie found a whole load o’ old ones shut awa’ in a cupboard—’

‘That very valuable bone china was left to me by a very dear friend!’ shouted Miss Level. She sprang to her feet and turned towards the sink. With amazing speed for someone who was partly dead she snatched teapot, cup and saucer from the surprised pictsies and held them up as high as she could.

‘Crivens!’ said Rob Anybody, staring at the crockery. ‘Now that’s what I call hagglin’!’

‘I’m sorry to be rude, but they’re of great sentimental value!’ said Miss Level.

‘Mister Anybody, you and your men will kindly get away from Miss Level and shut up! ’ said Mistress Weatherwax quickly. ‘Pray do not disturb Miss Level while she’s making tea!’

‘But she’s holding—’ Tiffany began, in amazement.

‘And let her get on with it without your chatter either, girl!’ the witch snapped.

‘Aye, but she picked up yon teapot wi’oot–’a voice began.

The old witch’s head spun round. Feegles backed away like trees bending to a gale.

‘Daft William,’ she said coldly, ‘there’s room in my well for one more frog, except that you don’t have the brains of one!’

‘Ahahaha, that’s wholly correct, mistress,’ said Daft Wullie, sticking out his chin with pride. ‘I fooled you there! I ha’ the brains o’ a beetle!’

Mistress Weatherwax glared at him, then turned back to Tiffany.

‘I turned someone into a frog!’ Tiffany said. ‘It was dreadful! He didn’t all fit in so there was this sort of huge pink—’

‘Never mind that right now,’ said Mistress Weatherwax in a voice that was suddenly so nice and ordinary that it tinkled like a bell. ‘I expect you finds things a bit different here than they were at home, eh?’

‘What? Well, yes, at home I never turned—’ Tiffany began in surprise, then saw that just above her lap the old woman was making frantic circular hand motions that somehow meant Keep going as if nothing has happened.

So they chatted madly about sheep and Mistress Weatherwax said they were very woolly, weren’t they, and Tiffany said that they were, extremely so, and Mistress Weatherwax said extremely woolly was what she’d heard… while every eye in the room watched Miss Level—

–making tea using four arms, two of which did not exist, and not realizing it.

The black kettle sailed across the room and apparently tipped itself into the pot. Cups and saucers and spoons and the sugar bowl floated with a purpose.

Mistress Weatherwax leaned across to Tiffany.

‘I hope you’re still feeling… alone?’ she whispered.

‘Yes, thank you. I mean, I can… sort of… feel them there, but they’re not getting in the way… er… sooner or later she’s going to realize… I mean, isn’t she?’

‘Very funny thing, the human mind,’ whispered the old woman. ‘I once had to see to a poor young man who had a tree fall on his legs. Lost both legs from the knee down. Had to have wooden legs made. Still, they were made out of that tree, which I suppose was some comfort, and he gets about pretty well. But I remember him saying, “Mistress Weatherwax, I can still feel my toes sometimes.” It’s like the head don’t accept what’s happened. And it’s not like she’s… your everyday kind of person to start with, I mean, she’s used to havin’ arms she can’t see—’

‘Here we are,’ said Miss Level, bustling over with three cups and saucers and the sugar bowl. ‘One for you, one for you, and one for—Oh…’

The sugar bowl dropped from an invisible hand and spilled its sugar onto the table. Miss Level stared at it in horror while, in the other hand that wasn’t there, a cup and saucer wobbled without visible means of support.

‘Shut your eyes, Miss Level!’ And there was something in the voice, some edge or strange tone that made Tiffany shut her eyes too.

‘Right! Now, you know the cup’s there, you can feel your arm,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, standing up. ‘Trust it! Your eyes are not in possession of all the facts! Now put the cup down gently… thaaat’s right. You can open your eyes now, but what I wants you to do, right, as a favour to me, is put the hands that you can see flat down on the table. Right. Good. Now, without takin’ those hands away, just go over to the dresser and fetch me that blue biscuit tin, will you? I’m always