A Hat Full Of Sky

No! We are never safe!

‘You are safe here,’ Tiffany repeated.

Please! said the hiver. Shelter us!

‘The wizard was nearly right about you,’ said Tiffany. ‘You hid in other creatures. But he didn’t wonder why. What are you hiding from?’

Everything, said the hiver.

‘I think I know what you mean,’ said Tiffany.

Do you? Do you know what it feels like to be aware of every star, every blade of grass? Yes. You do. You call it ‘opening your eyes again’. But you do it for a moment. We have done it for eternity. No sleep, no rest, just endless… endless experience, endless awareness. Of everything. All the time. How we envy you, envy you! Lucky humans, who can close your minds to the endless cold deeps of space! You have this thing you call… boredom? That is the rarest talent in the universe! We heard a song, it went ‘Twinkle twinkle little star…’ What power! What wondrous power! You can take a billion trillion tons of flaming matter, a furnace of unimaginable strength, and turn it into a little song for children! You build little worlds, little stories, little shells around your minds and that keeps infinity at bay and allows you to wake up in the morning without screaming!

Completely binkers! said a cheerful voice at the back of Tiffany’s memory. You just couldn’t keep Dr Bustle down.

Pity us, yes, pity us, said the voices of the hiver. No shield for us, no rest for us, no sanctuary. But you, you withstood us. We saw that in you. You have minds within minds. Hide us!

‘You want silence?’ said Tiffany.

Yes, and more than silence, said the voice of the hiver. You humans are so good at ignoring things. You are almost blind and almost deaf. You look at a tree and see… just a tree, a stiff weed. You don’t see its history, feel the pumping of the sap, hear every insect in the bark, sense the chemistry of the leaves, notice the hundred shades of green, the tiny movements to follow the sun, the subtle growth of the wood…

‘But you don’t understand us,’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t think any human could survive you. You give us what you think we want, as soon as we want it, just like in fairy stories. And the wishes always go wrong.’

Yes. We know that now. We have an echo of you now. We have… understanding, said the hiver. So now we come to you with a wish. It is the wish that puts the others right.

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s always the last wish, the third wish. It’s the one that says “Make this not have happened”.’

Teach us the way to die, said the voices of the hiver.

‘I don’t know it!’

All humans know the way, said the voices of the hiver. You walk it every day of your short, short lives. You know it. We envy you your knowledge. You know how to end. You are very talented.

I must know how to die, Tiffany thought. Somewhere deep down. Let me think. Let me get past the ‘I can’t’…

She held up the glittering shamble. Shafts of light still spun off it, but she didn’t need it any more. She could hold the power in the centre of herself. It was all a matter of balance.

The light died. Rob Anybody was still hanging in the threads, but all his hair had come unplaited and stood out from his head in a great red ball. He looked stunned.

‘I could just murrrder a kebab,’ he said.

Tiffany lowered him to the ground, where he swayed slightly, then she put the rest of the shamble in her pocket.

‘Thank you, Rob,’ she said. ‘But I want you to go now. It could get… serious.’

It was, of course, the wrong thing to say.

‘I’m no’ leavin’!’ he snapped. ‘I promised Jeannie to keep ye safe! Let’s get on wi’ it!’

There was no arguing. Rob was standing in that half-crouch of his, fists bunched, chin out, ready for anything and burning with defiance.

‘Thank you,’ said Tiffany, and straightened up.

Death is right behind us, she thought. Life ends, and there’s death, waiting. So… it must be close. Very close.

It would be… a door. Yes. An old door, old wood. Dark, too.

She turned. Behind her, there was a black door in the air.

The hinges would creak, she thought.

When she pushed it open, they did.

So-oo… she thought, this isn’t exactly real. I’m telling myself a story I can understand, about doors, and I’m fooling myself just enough for it all to work. I just have to keep balanced on that edge for it to go on working, too. And that’s as hard as not thinking about a pink rhinoceros. And if Granny Weatherwax can do that, I can too.

Beyond the door, black sand stretched away under a sky of pale stars. There were some mountains on the distant horizon.

You must help us through, said the voices of the hiver.

‘If you’ll tak’ my advice, you’ll no’ do that,’ said Rob Anybody from Tiffany’s ankle. ‘I dinnae trust the scunner one wee bitty!’

‘There’s part of me in there. I trust that,’ she said. ‘I did say you don’t have to come, Rob.’

‘Oh, aye? An’ I’m ta’ see you go through there alone, am I? Ye’ll not find me leavin’ you now!’

‘You’ve got a clan and a wife, Rob!’

‘Aye, an’ so I willnae dishonour them by lettin’ yer step across Death’s threshold alone,’ said Rob Anybody firmly.

So, thought Tiffany as she stared through the doorway, this is what we do. We live on the edges. We help those who can’t find the way…

She took a deep breath and stepped across.

Nothing much changed. The sand felt gritty underfoot and crunched when she walked over it, as she expected, but when it was kicked up it fell back as slowly as thistledown, and she hadn’t expected that. The air wasn’t cold, but it was thin and prickly to breathe.

The door shut softly behind her.

Thank you, said the voices of the hiver. What do we do now?

Tiffany looked around her, and up at the stars. They weren’t ones that she recognized.

‘You die, I think,’ she said.

But there is no ‘me’ to die, said the voices of the hiver. There is only us.