The Wee Free Men

and she’d seen them only a few minutes ago. But when they’d gone, they left the impression of never having been there.

She could go to the mound and see if she could find the big hole. But supposing it wasn’t there? Or supposing it was, but all there was down there were rabbits?

No, it’s all true, she said to herself. I must remember that, too.

A buzzard screamed in the dawn greyness. She looked up as it circled into sunlight, and a tiny dot detached itself from the bird.

That was far too high up even for a pictsie to stand the fall.

Tiffany scrambled to her feet as Hamish tumbled through the sky. And then—something ballooned above him and the fall became just a gentle floating, like thistledown.

The bulging shape above Hamish was Y-shaped. As it got bigger, the shape become more precise, more… familiar.

He landed, and a pair of Tiffany’s pants, the long-legged ones with the rosebud pattern, settled down on top of him.

‘That was great,’ he said, pushing his way through the folds of fabric. ‘Nae more landin’ on my heid for me!’

‘They’re my best pants,’ said Tiffany, wearily. ‘You stole them off our clothes line, didn’t you…?’

‘Oh aye. Nice and clean,’ said Hamish. ‘I had to cut the lace off ‘cuz it got in the way, but I put it by and ye could easily sew it on again.’ He gave Tiffany the big grin of someone who, for once, has not dived heavily into the ground.

She sighed. She’d liked the lace. She didn’t have many things that weren’t necessary. ‘I think you’d better keep them,’ she said.

‘Aye, I will, then,’ said Hamish. ‘Noo, what wuz it…? Oh, yes. Ye have visitors comin’. I spotted them out over the valley. Look up there.’

There were two other things up there, bigger than a buzzard, so high that they were already in full sunlight. Tiffany watched as they circled lower.

They were broomsticks.

I knew I had to wait! Tiffany thought.

Her ears bubbled. She turned and saw Hamish running across the grass. As she looked, the buzzard picked him up and sped onwards. She wondered if he was frightened or, at least, didn’t want to meet… whoever was coming

The broomsticks descended.

The lowest one had two figures on it. As it landed, Tiffany saw that one of them was Miss Tick, clinging anxiously onto a smaller figure who’d been doing the steering. She half climbed off, half fell off, and tottered over to Tiffany.

‘You wouldn’t believe the time I’ve had,’ she said. ‘It was just a nightmare! We flew through the storm! Are you all right?’

‘Er… yes…’

‘What happened?’

Tiffany looked at her. How did you begin to answer something like that?

‘The Queen’s gone,’ she said. That seemed to cover it.

‘What? The Queen has gone? Oh… er… these ladies are Mrs Ogg—’

‘Mornin’,’ said the broomstick’s other occupant, who was pulling at her long black dress, from under the folds of which came the sounds of twanging elastic. The wind up there blows where it likes, I don’t mind telling you!’ She was a short fat lady with a cheerful face like an apple that has been stored too long; all the wrinkles moved into different positions when she smiled.

‘And this,’ said Miss Tick, ‘is Miss—’

‘Mistress,’ snapped the other witch, dismounting.

‘I’m so sorry, Mistress Weatherwax,’ said Miss Tick. ‘Very, very good witches,’ she whispered to Tiffany. ‘I was very lucky to find them. They respect witches up in the mountains.’

Tiffany was impressed that anyone could make Miss Tick flustered, but the other witch seemed to do it just by standing there. She was tall—except, Tiffany realized, she wasn’t that tall, but she stood tall, which could easily fool you if you weren’t paying attention—and like the other witch wore a rather shabby black dress. She had an elderly, thin face that gave nothing away. Piercing blue eyes looked Tiffany up and down, from head to toe.

‘You’ve got good boots,’ said the witch.

‘Tell Mistress Weatherwax what happened—’ Miss Tick began. But the witch held up a hand and Miss Tick stopped talking immediately. Tiffany was even more impressed now.

Mistress Weatherwax gave Tiffany a look that went right through her head and about five miles out the other side. Then she walked over to the stones, and waved one hand. It was an odd movement, a kind of wriggle in the air, but for a moment it left a glowing line. There was a noise, a chord, as though all sorts of sounds were happening at the same time. It snapped into silence.

‘Jolly Sailor tobacco?’ said the witch.

‘Yes,’ said Tiffany.

The witch waved a hand again. There was another sharp, complicated noise. Mistress Weatherwax turned suddenly and stared at the distant pimple that was the pictsie mound.

‘Nac Mac Feegle? Kelda?’ she demanded.

‘Er, yes. Only temporary,’ said Tiffany.

‘Hmmph,’ said Mistress Weatherwax.

Wave. Sound.

‘Frying pan?’

‘Yes. It’s got lost, though.’

‘Hmm.’

Wave. Sound. It was as if the woman was extracting her history from the air.

‘Filled buckets?’

‘And they filled up the log box, too,’ said Tiffany.

Wave. Sound.

‘I see. Special Sheep Liniment?’

‘Yes, my father says it puts—’

Wave. Sound.

‘Ah. Land of snow.’ Wave. Sound. ‘A queen.’ Wave. Sound. ‘Fighting.’ Wave, sound. ‘On the sea?’ Wave, sound, wave, sound…

Mistress Weatherwax stared at the flashing air, looking at pictures only she could see. Mrs Ogg sat down beside Tiffany, her little legs going up in the air as she made herself comfortable.

‘I’ve tried Jolly Sailor,’ she said. ‘Smells like toe-nails, don’t it?’

‘Yes, it does!’ said Tiffany, gratefully.

‘To be a kelda of the Nac Mac Feegle, you have to marry one of ‘em, don’t you?’ said Mrs Ogg, innocently.

‘Ah, yes, but I found a way round that,’ said Tiffany. She told her. Mrs Ogg laughed. It was a sociable kind of laugh, the sort of laugh that makes you comfortable.

The noise and flashing stopped. Mistress Weatherwax stood staring at nothing for a moment, and then said: ‘You beat the Queen, at the end. But you had help, I think.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Tiffany.

‘And that was—?’