A Hat Full Of Sky (13 page)

She was a tiger, with huge fangs.

She yelped and stood up.

“Oh, do be careful,” said Miss Level, and then saw her face. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.

“I…I…something bit me!” lied Tiffany. That was a safe bet in these places. The fleas bit the rats and the rats bit the children.

She managed to get out into the daylight, her head spinning. Miss Level came out a few minutes later and found her leaning against the wall, shaking.

“You look
dreadful
,” she said.

“Ferns!” said Tiffany. “Everywhere! Big ferns! And big things, like cows made out of lizards!” She turned a wide, mirthless smile onto Miss Level, who took a step back. “You can
eat
them!” She blinked. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, but I’m coming right down here this minute to fetch you,” said Miss Level. “I’m on the broomstick right now!”

“They laughed at me when I said I could trap
one. Well, who’s laughing now, tell me that, eh?”

Miss Level’s expression of concern turned into something close to panic.

“That didn’t sound like your voice. That sounded like a man! Do you
feel
all right?”

“Feel…crowded,” murmured Tiffany.

“Crowded?” said Miss Level.

“Strange…memories…help me…”

Tiffany looked at her arm. It had scales on it. Now it had hair on it. Now it was smooth and brown, and holding—

“A scorpion sandwich?” she said.

“Can you hear me?” asked Miss Level, her voice a long way away. “You’re delirious. Are you sure you girls haven’t been playing with potions or anything like that?”

The broomstick dropped out of the sky and the other part of Miss Level nearly fell off. Without speaking, both of Miss Level got Tiffany onto the stick and part of Miss Level got on behind her.

It didn’t take long to fly back to the cottage. Tiffany spent the flight with her mind full of hot cotton wool and wasn’t at all certain where she was, although her body did know and threw up again.

Miss Level helped her off the stick and sat her
on the garden seat just outside the cottage door.

“Now just you wait there,” said Miss Level, who dealt with emergencies by talking incessantly and using the word “just” too often because it’s a calming word, “and I’ll just get you a drink and then we’ll just see what the matter is….” There was a pause, and then the stream of words came out of the house again, dragging Miss Level after them. “…And I’ll just check on…things. Just drink this, please!”

Tiffany drank the water and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Miss Level weaving string around an egg. She was trying to make a shamble without Tiffany noticing.

Strange images were floating around Tiffany’s mind. There were scraps of voices, fragments of memories…and one little voice that was her own, small and defiant and getting fainter: You’re not me. You just think you are! Someone help me!

“Now, then,” said Miss Level, “let’s just see what we can see—”

The shamble exploded, not just into pieces but into fire and smoke.

“Oh, Tiffany,” said Miss Level, frantically waving smoke away. “Are you all right?”

Tiffany stood up slowly. It seemed to Miss Level that she was slightly taller than she remembered.

“Yes, I think I am,” said Tiffany. “I think I’ve been all wrong, but
now
I’m all right. And I’ve been wasting my time, Miss Level.”

“What—” Miss Level began.

Tiffany pointed a finger at her.

“I
know
why you had to leave the circus, Miss Level,” she said. “It had to do with the clown Floppo, the trick ladder, and…some
custard
….”

Miss Level went pale. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Just by looking at you!” said Tiffany, pushing past her into the dairy. “Watch this, Miss Level!”

She pointed a finger. A wooden spoon rose an inch from the table. Then it began to spin, faster and faster, until with a cracking sound it broke into splinters. They whirled away across the room.

“And I can do
this
!” Tiffany shouted. She grabbed a bowl of curds, tipped them out onto the table, and waved a hand at them. They turned into a cheese.

“Now
that’s
what cheese making should be!” she said. “To think that I spent stupid
years
learning the hard way! That’s how a
real
witch does it! Why do we crawl in the dirt, Miss Level? Why do we amble around with herbs and bandage smelly old men’s legs? Why do we get paid with
eggs and stale cakes? Annagramma is as stupid as a hen, but even she can see it’s wrong. Why don’t we
use
magic? Why are you so
afraid
?”

Miss Level tried to smile.

“Tiffany, dear, we all go through this,” she said, and her voice was shaking. “Though not as…explosively as you, I have to say. And the answer is…well, it’s dangerous.”

“Yes, but that’s what people always say to scare children,” said Tiffany. “We get told stories to frighten us, to keep us scared! Don’t go into the big bad woods help me because it’s full of scary things, that’s what we’re told. But really, the big bad woods should be scared of
us
! I’m going out!”

“I think that would be a good idea,” said Miss Level weakly. “Until you behave.”

“I
don’t
have to do things your way,” snarled Tiffany, slamming the door behind her.

Miss Level’s broomstick was leaning against the wall a little way away. Tiffany stopped and stared at it, her mind on fire.

She’d tried to keep away from it. Miss Level had wheedled her into a trial flight with Tiffany clinging on tightly with arms and legs while both of Miss Level ran alongside her, holding on to ropes and making encouraging noises. They
had stopped when Tiffany threw up for the fourth time.

Well, that was then!

She grabbed the stick, swung a leg over it—and found that her other foot stuck to the ground as though nailed there. The broomstick swung around wildly as she tried to pull it up, and, when the boot was finally tugged off the ground, the stick turned over so that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the best position in which to make a grand exit.

She said, quietly, “I am not going to learn you,
you
are going to learn
me
. Or the next lesson will involve an axe!”

The broomstick turned upright, then gently rose.

“Right,” said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience. The ground dropping away below her didn’t worry her at all. If it didn’t have the sense to stay away from her, she’d
hit
it….

As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long grass of the garden.

“Ach, we’re too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.”

“Aye, but did ye see that foot? It’s nae won yet—
oour hag’s in there somewhere! She’s fighting it! It canna win until it’s taken the last scrap o’ her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin’ to grab them apples!”

“It’s sorry I am tae say this, Rob, but no one can fight a hiver. ’Tis like fightin’ yoursel. The more you fight, the more it’ll tak’ o’ ye. And when it has all o’ ye
—
”

“Wash oot yer mouth wi’ hedgehog pee, Big Yan! That isna gonna happen—”

“Crivens! Here comes the big hag!”

Half of Miss Level stepped out into the ruined garden.

She stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head.

Daft Wullie was stuck out in the open, where he’d been trying to snag a fallen apple. He turned to flee and would have got clean away if he hadn’t run straight into a pottery garden gnome. He bounced off, stunned, and staggered wildly, trying to focus on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of him. He was far too angry to hear the click of the garden gate and the soft tread of approaching footsteps.

When it comes to choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn’t think twice. He doesn’t think at all.

“What’re ye grinnin’ at, pal?” he demanded.
“Oh aye, you reckon you’re the big man, eh, jus’ ’cos yez got a fishin’ rod?” He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand and aimed his head at what turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed anyway, as things tend to in these circumstances, but it did slow the little man down and cause him to stagger in circles.

Too late, he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to flee, right into the hands of
also
Miss Level.

Her fingers closed around him.

“I’m a witch, you know,” she said. “And if you don’t stop struggling this minute, I will subject you to the most dreadful torture. Do you know what that is?”

Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of juggling had given Miss Level a grip like steel. Down in the long grass the rest of the Feegles listened so hard it hurt.

Miss Level brought him a little closer to her mouth.

“I’ll let you go right now
without
giving you a taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my cupboard,” she said.

Rob Anybody leaped up.

“Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi’! D’ye no’ have a drop of mercy in
you?” he shouted. “Ye’re a cruel hag indeed tae—” He stopped. Miss Level was smiling. Rob Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the ground and said: “Ach,
crivens!
”

The Nac Mac Feegle respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one had brought out a big loaf and a whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You had to respect someone like that.

“Of course, I’d
heard
of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,” she said, watching them eat, which is not something to be done lightly. “But I always thought you were just a myth.”

“Aye, weel, we’ll stay that way if ye dinna mind,” said Rob Anybody, and belched. “’Tis bad enough wi’ them arky-olly-gee men wantin’ to dig up oour mounds wi’oot them folklore ladies wantin’ to tak’ pichoors o’ us an’ that.”

“And you watch over Tiffany’s farm, Mr. Anybody?”

“Aye, we do that, an’ we dinna ask for any reward,” said Rob Anybody stoutly.

“Aye, we just tak’ a few wee eiggs an’ fruits an’ old clothes and—” Daft Wullie began.

Rob gave him a look.

“Er…wuz that one o’ those times when I
shouldna open my big fat mouth?” said Wullie.

“Aye. It wuz,” said Rob. He turned back to both of Miss Level. “Mebbe we tak’ the odd bitty thing lyin’ aboot—”

“—in locked cupboards an’ such—” added Daft Wullie happily.

“—but it’s no’ missed, an’ we keeps an eye on the ships in payment,” said Rob, glaring at his brother.

“You can see the sea from down there?” said Miss Level, entering that state of general bewilderment that most people fell into when talking to the Feegles.

“Rob Anybody means the sheep,” said Awf’ly Wee Billy. Gonnagles know a bit more about language.

“Aye, I said so, ships,” said Rob Anybody. “Anywa’…aye, we watch her farm. She’s the hag o’ oor hills, like her granny.” He added proudly, “It’s through her the hills knows they are alive.”

“And a hiver is…?”

Rob hesitated. “Dunno the proper haggin’ way o’ talking aboot it,” he said. “Awf’ly Wee Billy, you know them lang words.”

Billy swallowed. “There’s old poems, mistress. It’s like a, a mind wi’oot a body, except it disna
think. Some say it’s nothing but a fear, and never dies. And what it does…” His tiny face wrinkled. “It’s like them things you get on sheep,” he decided.

The Feegles who weren’t eating and drinking came to his aid.

“Horns?”

“Wools?”

“Tails?”

“Legs?”

“Chairs?” This was Daft Wullie.

“Sheep ticks,” said Billy thoughtfully.

“A parasite, you mean?” said Miss Level.

“Aye, that could be the word,” said Billy. “It creeps in, ye ken. It looks for folks wi’ power and strength. Kings, ye ken, magicians, leaders. They say that way back in time, afore there
wuz
people, it lived in beasts. The strongest beasts, ye ken, the ones wi’ big, big teeths. An’ when it finds ye, it waits for a chance tae creep intae your head and it
becomes
ye.”

The Feegles fell silent, watching Miss Level.

“Becomes you?” she said.

“Aye. Wi’ your memories an’ all. Only…it changes ye. It gives ye a lot o’ power, but it takes ye over, makes ye its own. An’ the last wee bit of ye that still
is
ye…well, that’ll fight and fight,
mebbe, but it will dwindle and dwindle until it’s a’ gone an’ ye’re just a memory….”

The Feegles watched both of Miss Level. You never knew what a hag would do at a time like this.

“Wizards used to summon demons,” she said. “They may still do so, although I think that’s considered so fifteen-centuries-ago these days. But that takes a lot of magic. And you could talk to demons, I believe. And there were rules.”

“Never heard o’ a hiver talkin’,” said Billy. “Or obeyin’ rules.”

“But why would it want Tiffany?” said Miss Level. “She’s not powerful!”

“She has the power o’ the land in her,” said Rob Anybody stoutly. “’Tis a power that comes at need, not for doin’ wee conjurin’ tricks. We seen it, mistress!”

“But Tiffany doesn’t do
any
magic,” said Miss Level helplessly. “She’s very bright, but she can’t even make a shamble. You must be wrong about that.”

“Any o’ youse lads
seen
the hag do any hagglin’ lately?” Rob Anybody demanded. There were a lot of shaken heads, and a shower of beads, beetles, feathers, and miscellaneous head items.

“Do you spy—I mean, do you watch over her
all
the time?” said Miss Level, slightly horrified.